


Fortune's Favorite

by BurningSilence



Series: Saga of the Sauveterres [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, It gets progressively darker, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Oblivion Dark Brotherhood, Oblivion Main Quest, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The slowest of builds, Trauma, mostly Fi, novelization of questlines, people react badly to things, problematic characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 121,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8987710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningSilence/pseuds/BurningSilence
Summary: Felicienne Sauveterre didn’t count on getting arrested the moment she stepped foot in Cyrodiil, nor did she think she would witness an emperor’s assassination or be tasked with finding his last living son, and she certainly did not see herself stumbling into the Shivering Isles as Sheogorath’s Champion due to her woeful sense of direction. But, here she was, freshly emerged from the Madhouse and in the midst of daedra and assassins, and she only had herself to blame. 
Emperor Uriel Septim said that in her face he saw the sun’s companion, but Felicienne knew that to be far from the truth. She has no business being out in the light.
Novelization of the main and Dark Brotherhood questlines, post-Shivering Isles.The sequel is in the works.





	1. The Hooded Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of an old Oblivion piece I started on Fanfiction called "Vicissitudes" in 2009. It's under the same penname, so you, if you wanted, you could look it up. I'm a bit more proud of this one, however. Also, I do try to use the original dialogue from the game where I can, so if some of the lines look familiar, that would be why. It should go without stating that I don't own anything of the Elder Scrolls series.
> 
> If you want to keep up with updates or want to watch me attempt to justify my wonky updating schedule, give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://burningsilenceblog.tumblr.com/) You can see me be an awkward bun who desperately tries to be witty. A fun time will be had by all.

Since she came back from the Shivering Isles, Felicienne Sauveterre sought shelter in The Lonely Suitor Lodge to ponder the weight of the situation she found herself in. She cursed her bad luck and poor sense of direction, as well as her her pride, since it kept her from asking directions when she first felt the prickle of unease as she strayed off from her original course towards Chorrol. Instead, she was determined to make her own way, despite the niggling at the back of her mind that Chorrol was really only a few days away by foot and it should not be taking near a week and a half to get there. But, she argued with herself, she was from High Rock, and she didn’t really know for sure. She could be going the right way. Her Cyrodilic not being the best, she still struggled to properly read the signs and, ergo, missed her rather easy mark.

Too late, she found herself tired and hungry, and all the way in run-down, balmy Bravil just as the hottest season of the year was winding down, giving way to what promised to be a crisp Heartfire, with the Amulet of Kings still heavy in her pocket and no Brother Jauffre to be found. Cursing herself again, she had planted herself in Silver Home on the Water and overheard the publican mention something about a strange door that opened in the Niben Bay. Count Terentius had sent out a small group of men to investigate it, but they came back, half of them raving mad, and the count decided merely to post someone out there to warn any would-be adventurer against entering. Her pride still bruised, she persuaded one of the merchants who frequented the inn if they would be so kind to take her out that way, as she didn’t fancy going for a swim after her already too-long and unplanned trip to Bravil. It probably helped that she threw in thirty septims and assured him that he did not have to leave his boat. She just wanted to be dropped off. Her passaged secured, she headed out the first thing the following morning and, after a month or two of discourteous dark elf sorceresses, Gatekeepers, Saints and Seducers, Knights of Order, quirky locals and men who wanted to die but didn’t want to put the work into it themselves, and recreating the Staff of Sheogorath, she found herself sitting on the Throne of Madness while Jyggalag roamed the waters of Oblivion free of his curse and Sheogorath.

She had only wanted to deliver this damn Amulet. Now she had no idea what she would be facing when she finally made it to Jauffre in Chorrol. Truthfully, though, it didn’t appear as if too much had happened while she was away. But what was she going to do about the Isles? Jyggalag mentioned that she might even grow into her station. Haskill would keep things running smoothly for her, but… What was she going to do? She couldn’t even find her way around Cyrodiil, how could she run a whole realm as a Daedric Prince? Was she even a Daedric Prince? What would happen when she dies? Will she die? Would Jyggalag try to take the realm over again, when she was out of the way? Her dark brows knit together as she leaned back against the wall behind her bedroll. It was still early and she had no plans to sleep yet, in spite of her exhaustion. Not that she could anyway, her thoughts driving any sense of relaxation from her body. And poor Hirrus Clutumnus. She hated killing him, but she hated the look he had in his eyes more, and his begging her for death. In the end, it seemed easy: just a gentle nudge of the ledge leading to New Sheoth Palace and his dying murmur of “Thank you” that still haunted her dreams a month later.

She couldn’t bring herself yet to wear the ring he left her in his jewelry box, still wrapped in the letter he left behind in her satchel.

She looked out the window and saw the sun hanging low in the sky, just above the distant mountains. Felicienne shrugged out of her amber cuirass and greaves, relieved at the air being able to hit her skin through the green cotton garments she wore underneath. Taking the trousers off as well, she relished the freedom that came with her current state of undress. She almost forgot what it was like to not have to wear armor every day. She missed her old life in Jehanna: Chapel twice a week, help mother with the household chores, keep up on her magical studies and her dismal healing spells, try to get the handsome shopkeep’s attention when they were in town to purchase goods. Normal things. A normal schedule, and normal home. All ripped away in the matter of hours, forcing her to flee to Cyrodiil. Looking back now, she probably would have picked Skyrim instead. Her Nordic reading skills were stronger, and someone else could deal with this emperor-Amulet-missing son scenario. Maybe even find a burly Nord to make sure no necromancers messed with her, though she remembered the Nords in High Rock as being somewhat xenophobic. So perhaps not.

Her thoughts now well and truly melancholy, she slipped under the covers of her bedroll. She briefly considered reading one of the books in the room, to practice if nothing else, but decided against it, determined to get some sleep now that her mind was free of the spores that floated around the Shivering Isles. Though restless, she allowed herself to see images in the ceiling of the room, the wood grain making dancing patterns, seeing faces in the knotholes of the panelling, and thought back to her now-burnt out bedroom in her family’s home, and how the scent of pine and lavender hung in the air no matter what time of year it was.

* * *

Masser and Secunda were shrouded in darkness and Bravil followed suit with only the faint glow of a few street lamps illuminating the city. Besides the diminutive guard shift patrolling the streets, all was still and silent save for a faint ripple, barely perceptible-except to only the most keen of eyes-traveled to the Lonely Suitor Lodge and made its way inside and up the two flights of stairs leading to the girl that slept inside, ignorant of what would soon transpire.

Dropping his Chameleon spell, Lucien Lachance observed the Breton for a moment. She was a pretty, young thing, not terribly so, not enough that people would think it’s tragic she fell into the wrong sort. Maybe just a waste of a life with so much more potential. As if there was a better purpose than serving the Dread Father. Ungolim said there was something different about this one; she had been hidden from the Night Mother’s gaze when she killed her victim, making her something of an anomaly from the usual recruits. Besides some minor background information, like a brief stint in the Imperial City prison for docking illegally from Hammerfell around the time the emperor was murdered, there was little about her that was available. Almost as if she had winked into existence. Still, Lucien didn’t see anything terribly extraordinary about her as he tracked her in town. She was friendly, if appearing tired, and polite. She had even apologized when he bumped into her in a crowd while in his plainclothes. She looked soft, despite her crime. Soft face, soft skin, soft manners. Softness had little place in the Brotherhood, though the appearance of it may have its advantages. Still, the Listener made it clear that the Night Mother wanted her recruited, and Lucien faithfully served her and Sithis above all else. He would talk to the girl.

She was quite pretty, after all.

He watched her, for some time, morbid curiosity provoking him. Her chest rose and fell with each breath she took, the material of the sleeping clothes rustling as she shifted in sleep. The shape of her bony shoulders was noticeable even through the cloth and her skin fairly glowed in what little light made its way through the window. He stepped on a loose floorboard and the creak of wood jostled the girl into consciousness. Her blue eyes snapped open and she pressed herself against the wall behind her. She grappled with the covers and shot to her feet, the cloth of her shirt skimming the tops of her coltish legs, and he relished in the brief thrill that ran through him at the sight of her terror.

“You sleep rather soundly, for a murderer.”

“How in Oblivion did you get in here?” she tried to shout, her voice cracking near the end of her question. How sweet. Her eyes fell to the other corner of the room, where her satchel, and weapon, lay. The corners of his lips quirked; she would have to get past him to grab them. She would never make it.

“That is not important,” he continued, ignoring her outburst, as he made his way over in front of her package, and blocked her path. “What is important, is that you pay attention to what I am about to propose.” She gaped at him, eyes wide and her hands clenched her shirt, but otherwise she stayed silent, tracking any perceptible movement on his part and considering her spellcasting options. She paid particular attention to the dagger that was strapped to his hip.

“I’m not a murderer,” she stated, confused and more than a tad frightened. She met his gaze and set her jaw, refusing to be intimidated by some stranger who broke into her room in the middle of the night. One did not become the champion of a Daedric Prince without having something of a backbone. He raised his brows, mocking her with his stare.

“No?” he asked, “the Night Mother certainly thinks so. You’ve taken a life, and the Night Mother has requested you, by name, I might add. I’ve been sent here to offer you a home with our little family.”

“Who are you, exactly?” Felicienne asked, a pit forming in her stomach. The Night Mother, he said. The only Night Mother she ever heard about involved the Dark Brotherhood, but beyond that, it wasn’t ever anything she looked any deeper into. She didn’t want to know. It wasn’t like she had ever planned on meeting them.

“I am Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood,” he answered. She thought it a rather simple answer for what was rapidly becoming an exceedingly complicated evening. “As I stated before, you’ve caught the attention of the Night Mother, and she wants to bring you into our fold.”

“And I told you I don’t murder people,” she bit out. The hooded man advanced on her and she could begin to make out his facial features. He was an older man, with an aquiline nose and a somewhat heavy brow. Other than that, she couldn’t make out many discernable features, except for his eyes, sharp and dark, as they looked into her. She regretted backing herself against the wall.

“Regardless of what you tell yourself, we don’t make mistakes.” He paused and grasped her face under her small chin, forcing her to look back up when she shrunk away, gloved fingers pressing deeply into the soft flesh of her jaw. Yes, she was soft. He breathed in and smelled the mead she must have been drinking earlier. The sweetness fit her person well. They would see how she would do. After a moment, he lowered his arm and reached into his robes, pulling out an ebony dagger. She jolted at the sight. “If you change your mind, go the the Inn of Ill Omen, along the Green Road. There, you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him. Then, your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete.” He held the knife out to the girl and almost laughed at the panicked look she gave him. “Accept this gift,” he added. “It is a virgin blade and thirsts for blood. Consider it an advance on a job well done.” She cautiously reached out and grabbed the offered blade, her breath coming rapidly, and clutched it to her chest. He stepped back from her, grinning widely. “Your path is clear,” he stated, “kill Rufio and the Dark Brotherhood will embrace you as family.” Then, he winked out of existence, without even the sound of faint footfalls as evidence of his visit.

Felicienne remained standing, her eyes darted around the room for any indication she may not be alone yet. When Lachance failed to reappear, she finally sunk down to the ground with her knees tucked under her chin. She tried the calm the pounding of her heart and settle her breathing, but to no avail. Unbidden, Hirrus Clutumnus came to her mind and her body ran cold. Surely that could not have been what that man was talking about. Hirrus had wanted to die; she was keeping him from falling victim to the Hill of Suicides. Still, she reminded herself that he was the only person she did not fell in combat. Perhaps the Night Mother did not draw distinction between murder and mercy-killing. Perhaps it was because she accepted payment. If that were so, she cursed herself again for picking that ring up. She should have left it. She never should have been tempted by the promise of reward, no matter how desperate her circumstances had been. She slept little that night, nodding off only to jerk herself awake, convinced she heard the smooth, low tones of the hooded man’s voice.

* * *

 

The girl left early the next morning, just as the sky began to turn a faint grey with the rising of Magnus and before the air grew sticky and damp with heat. She crept out of the inn like a spider, avoiding any attention she might draw so that she could slip out unquestioned and unmolested. The events of the previous evening niggled at the back of her mind and she became hyper-aware of anything that moved out of her direct field of vision. Her hand never strayed far from the blade that Lachance gave her, gripping it occasionally when she became startled by a random noise on the road, convinced she could feel those dark eyes burning into her back.

After a time, she realized she neared the location he told her about. She bit her lip and contemplated just passing the inn, and leaving the mess for someone else. However, her weariness, a combination of her lack of food for this stretch and her inability to fall back to sleep the night before coupled with the bright sun that hung overhead proved too much and ducked inside the unassuming building. She would stop in for a pint and maybe some bread, nothing else. With this sentiment firmly in place, she walked up to the counter where the publican stood and calmly requested some cheap ale and a small loaf of bread. Something hard that she could wrap and take with her. Manheim Maulhand, she learned he called himself, was overjoyed at having another customer, and he continued to tell her that his only consistent customers were a Redguard named Minerva and an “old codger” named Rufio. At the mention of Rufio’s name, Felicienne lost her appetite. Manheim continued to speak, unminding of his patron’s ashen face, about how he thought the man was running from something, but what did he care since he paid his tab on time every week.

“On the run?” she asked, interest piqued.

He stopped wiping down the countertop and nodded. “Yeah,” he exhaled. “Showed up a few weeks ago, a little after the emperor’s murder. Tossed a bag of gold at me and asked me if I had anywhere ‘private’ that he could stay. I told him he could rent the downstairs suite for 30 gold a week,” he said, a thoughtful expression flittered across his face, “I kind of wish I’d told him a higher price, since he seems to be able to pay that no problem every week. But oh well, he’s more than paid for his stay, and it barely costs anything to keep him at all. Hardly asks for anything. I think he’s trying not to draw attention to himself. Whatever he got himself caught up in, it must be bad.”

Felicienne snorted into her drink. “Sounds like it,” she added, when she caught him looking at her. She sat for a few moments longer, downing her ale in four long gulps. She still couldn’t get into Cyrodilic beer, not after having Nordic brew so nearby in her old hometown. And the mead in the heartland was awful. She then asked if he had another room available, and proceeded to rent it out for the rest of the day.

As she lay on her bedroll, she considered what Manheim told her. He was on the run, but from what. This question kept circling her mind and refused to leave her alone. She let out a huff of frustration; her curiosity had gotten her into enough trouble already. She didn’t need any more. She briefly wondered what would happen if she refused the “assignment” altogether. After all, she wasn’t really a part of the Brotherhood, nor did she actually tell Lachance she would do it. He just...left her there, with a dagger and directions. But why would someone want this man dead? Did it really matter? Combat was one thing, Hirrus Clutumnus was an exception, but flat-out murder...it didn’t sit well with her. What could this man have possibly done that would warrant the Dark Brotherhood coming after him? Who would go to the lengths of performing the Black Sacrament to get rid of him? Her fists clenched at her sides and she squirmed on top of the covers.

It began to grow dark, and a part of her wondered if that man would show up again this night. Was he watching her? In an attempt to settle her thoughts, she left her room, stepping softly as she walked down the hall and stairs. Glancing at her surroundings, she noted that Manheim and the Redguard woman, likely the Minerva he’d mentioned earlier, speaking to each other in low voices, laughing every once in awhile, and quite absorbed with one another, leaving her free to go into the basement unnoticed. When she reached the room she assumed was Rufio’s, she found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over and appearing weary. She pushed the door open further and his head snapped up.

He demanded to know who she was, though she had no answer prepared for him. “I said who are you? What are you doing here? I ain’t done nothing,” he spat as he began to stand up.

She crossed her arms before she replied. Fixing him with a cool stare, in contrast to her pounding heart, she stated, “I think we both know that’s not exactly true, is it?”

His eyes widened while what color he had drained from his face near-instantaneously and he stammered, “No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!”

Felicienne’s stomach felt hollow and losing whatever meager meal she ate before became a realistic possibility. Hot coals coiled in her midsection, strangling her heart and filled her mouth with bitter ashes and venom. “You told her to stay still? It was all her fault, then,” she snarled. “Did she cry, too?”

He made to bolt past her, but he was old and frail, and she had sharper reflexes and the added benefit of liquid fire lubricating her joints. She punched him once in the throat, winding him and knocking him down before she grabbed her dagger and sank it deep into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed off to the side in two, three, four great bursts, staining her hands, before slowing to a intermittent trickle and puddled around his limp form. She felt the warm blood that covered her hands and the scent of heavy copper that clouded the room and swallowed the bile that rose up her esophagus. She stared at his still-open eyes as the light fled from them. His chalky skin glowed in the lamplight. A washing bowl caught her eye in the corner of the room, and she used it to first clean her soiled hands, then the room as best as she could. With any luck, Manheim would not notice anything amiss until he came to collect the rent and she would be long, long gone. She looked around at the gory scene and felt a weight settle over her shoulders, its fingers clawing into her bones and leaving their icy tendrils dripping down her skin.

* * *

 

 She left, after waiting for the publican to settle in for the night and after she made sure she appeared as presentable as possible, in case she ran into an Imperial Guard patrolling the roads. If memory served her correctly, which would be a miracle at this moment, there was another inn not too far away from Ill Omen. Something that started with an F.

When she entered Faregyl Inn, she dispensed with pleasantries and asked the Khajiit woman running the desk if she had a room for rent. Seeming irritated, she responded affirmatively and Felicienne fished out another ten gold as payment, with another five as a tip. She hurried up the stairs and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to strip down out of her day clothes and grateful for finally having a room with a real bed. Not that she thought she would be sleeping any time soon. She wasn’t sure how long it would take Lachance to show, but that was why she left Ill Omen so soon; perhaps it would throw him off her trail. Though, if she were honest with herself, she doubted it.

Her eyes grew heavy as the adrenaline of the evening wore on, leaving her wrung out and aching. Her slumber was interrupted by the creeping sensation at the base of her neck that made her flinch into wakefulness. There, the darkened figure of Lucien Lachance stood once again at the foot of her bed. At least this time, she still had all of her clothing on.

“So the deed is done? You’ve changed your mind, have you?” he stated, lips twisted at the corners.

Felicienne scowled at his glibness, either blind or uncaring of the turmoil she felt roiling inside of her. “Have you been watching me?” she accused, arms crossed in front of her chest; a facsimile of a barrier.

“You’ll soon find that we know a great many things, for you are now a part of our family,and the Night Mother keeps an eye on her beloved children.”

“That didn’t exactly answer my question,” she huffed. “I think, if we’re to be...family...that a certain level of trust should be established. I mean, I don’t even know you. To me, you’re some strange man who has broken into my room twice, now, and told me to kill someone.”

“I did not obligate you to kill anyone, unless you wanted to. And you did. Your murder of Rufio was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. A contract between you, and the Dark Brotherhood. If you wished to cut ties with us, you needed only to ignore our meeting and carry on with your life as if we had never met. But you did not,” he reminded her. Felicienne thought he sounded smug.

“Then...then now what?” she asked, hating how her voice still shook. He smiled, warmer than previously, but still left her feeling wary.

He told her to go to Cheydinhal, to an abandoned house in the eastern part of the town, and break into the basement where she would need to answer a question that the black door would pose to her. She nodded, her hair obscuring her face. “When you’re inside,” he continued, “you’ll speak to an Argonian woman, Ocheeva. She can answer any other questions you might have. Now, we must part for now. You have much to do in the meantime, and I will be following your progress...closely.” He stretched his hand towards her face, ignoring her small jump, and brushed a lock of dark hair away from her face. “Welcome to the family.”

She shivered when his hand, accidentally, touched the flesh of her cheek, his glove catching softly on the skin. The smell of leather and smoke, and something metallic, wafted around her, clinging to her clothing and hair. In an instant, he was gone, leaving her again to wonder if he had ever really been there at all. 


	2. Sanctuary

Entering Cheydinhal was a relief for Felicienne. Having taken her two and half days to complete the trip, the prospect of finding a bed and hot food was more than appealing to her at the moment. It was still daylight and finding the abandoned house that Lachance told her about was out of the question. She didn’t need to draw anymore attention to herself. It was her first time in the city, and she’d rather not make a poor first impression upon the town guards. If local rumours were to be believed, however, it seemed that would matter very little; she could probably be thrown in jail for sneezing the wrong way in front of a guard here.

Despite the unease of the citizenry, the town itself was quite beautiful, and Felicienne thought it ironic that such a lovely and verdant place would be home to a death-worshipping cult. A death cult that she was now a part of as well, she reminded herself.

She attempted to pass the day as she would normally: walking around the town and listening to the conversations of others. The crisp air of Frostfall worked its way well into her leathers over the past few days, and she looked forward to being inside by a warm fire later at night. Though cold, the weather was otherwise bright and pleasant, if a little jarring with the sunlight glinting off of the buildings and the silver creek that flowed through the town. The only sounds that lingered were the conversations between residents and the rushing of that water that ran across the landscape.

When the sun had dipped low enough in the sky for her tastes, and the streets became more sparsely populated, she made her way to the eastern wall of the city, staying off the main road as much as she could. There, the only abandoned house that she noted had boarded windows and doors and stuck out, in spite of the encroaching twilight. Silently, she walked towards the door, checking that no one saw her-the guards too occupied with each other-she fished a lock pick out of her pockets and fiddled with the lock until she heard the tell-tale sound of a tumbler catching and staying in place. One more click and the door gave way to her persuasion and allowed her entrance.

The place appeared as if it had been abandoned for quite some time, cobwebs and dust clinging to every corner and surface of the entry room. Spirals of dust glinted in the fading light, the only movement in the house. The musty air assaulted her nose, and she held back a sneeze, afraid to make even the slightest noise. The scent of old wood and spoiled food clung to the room and slithered down the walls, following her as she walked towards the basement door. She proceeded down the corridor, a faint red glow becoming more prevalent as she walked on. She came upon what must have been the black door that Lachance had told her about, only to be greeted with an eerie, inhuman voice asking what the color of night was. Remember the passphrase the Speaker had given her, she stuttered out her response and the door swung open.

“Welcome home,” it rasped into her ear. She stepped inside and was greeting by an Argonian woman, who smiled at her and waved her in.

“Greetings, sister!” she grasped Felicienne’s hands and shook them, her grasp firm. “Lucien has told me all about you! Let me be the first to welcome you to our sanctuary; may it serve as a place of comfort and security to you when you need it.”

“Thank you,” the Breton murmured. Ocheeva then handed her a package and explained that it was a set of armor, specific to the Dark Brotherhood. She wasn’t required to wear it, but she might find it beneficial, especially with the enchantments that it was created with. “So...Lachance told you about me?”

“Of course he did. You’re one of us now. Besides, Vicente and I need to keep abreast of any newcomers into our little home. If only to make sure everyone gets a fair shot at contracts,” she laughed, patting the girl on the back. The coolness of the woman’s scales seeped into Felicienne and skittered across her flesh beneath her clothing. “Besides, Lucien isn’t here very often. His duties with the Black Hand keep him busy most of the time. So, he trusts Vicente and I to keep order around here. In fact, you’ll need to speak with him next and, if you want, check to see if he has anything available for you to do.”

Holding the package to her chest, Felicienne nodded and inquired where she might find Vicente. When given the directions to his quarters, she made her way down the long hallway that took her further underground. She didn’t pass anyone, but she could see evidence of multiple people living under the same roof: worn furniture, books unshelved, and the sounds of chatter in the two rooms that were off to the side of the main entry way. She reached the end of the corridor and she knocked on the large chamber doors that met her.

A soft voice told her to enter, and she pulled the heavy doors open. What she next saw left her jaw agape and a scream trapped within her throat. The man inside was a ghastly shade of white, even more pale than she was, and gaunt. He noticed her staring, and smirked.

“Ah, do not let my appearance unnerve you. The needs and tenets of the Dark Brotherhood come before my own as a vampire,” he stated. Embarrassed, she stammered out an apology, which he waved off and told her that it wasn’t so uncommon for new members to be taken off-guard by him. She explained she had never seen a vampire before and she didn’t mean to stare. Then, she inquired if he was alright.

He told her he was fine; he had ways of getting sustenance even with his duties underground.

Felicienne did not deign to ask anymore questions about that.

Vicente went on to explain how their contract system worked, and that, if she was ready, he did have a job available for her, but perhaps she would like to take it easy for the rest of the evening, as this was all new for her. She admitted she wasn’t sure what she had gotten herself into; she hadn’t been in Cyrodiil very long, and she came at a most inconvenient time after leaving her home in High Rock.

She fell silent and sighed. She still had that Amulet to deliver to Chorrol, and she kept putting it off. She came to Cyrodiil to escape, and only found herself dragged into the machinations of others. First Uriel Septim and his murderers, then Sheogorath-and she swore she could hear that daedric bastard laughing at her despite his transformation back to Jyggalag-and now the Dark Brotherhood. She should have either just stayed in High Rock or her jail cell, Imperial pardon be damned. She worried her bottom lip and ran her hand through her hair, catching on the various knots the wind had tangled it into.

Vicente, watching the expressions flit across her face, asked her if she would just like to head up to the living quarters and get settled in; they could resume their business tomorrow after she was feeling better. Gratefully, Felicienne nodded and left his room, still holding the armor Ocheeva gave her. She wanted to get to know the people she would be living with, at least part of the time.

Though they were underground, the sanctuary itself was somewhat cozy, but failed to dissipate the cold that rooted in her bones. The stone hall echoed with her muffled footsteps, the sound buzzing in her ears. She watched the play of the shadows dance across the walls in the flickering lamp and candle light as she made her way to, what she assumed, was the main living quarters.

What was the protocol for meeting a group of assassins? Would one stand in a group and introduce yourself? One by one? Maybe they would think she was some sort of fraud. She certainly felt like one. She was certainly no hardened criminal, despite the situation she found herself in. Unlucky, yes, but not a criminal. Or, she hadn’t been, at least. Not before Lachance and his Night Mother.

Fortunately, an older blonde woman-Breton, Felicienne thought-saved her from her spiraling concerns by introducing herself as Antoinetta Marie.

“I’ve heard so much about you, it’s wonderful to finally meet you,” she told Felicienne.

“Everyone’s heard so much about me,” the younger Breton tittered. “How keen,” she added. “But I don’t know anything about anyone else.”

The blonde laughed. It was a pleasant sound, and put Felicienne a bit more at ease. “You’ll become accustomed to everything soon enough. You’ve only just arrived, sister.”

Felicienne looked abashed, scuffing her foot along the concrete floor and fiddling with her parcel.

“Don’t worry about it,” Antoinetta continued. “I’m one of the newest members here, besides you, of course. It’s takes a little bit to get used to everything, but you’ll never find a place as wonderful as our sanctuary. The people here, we truly are a family.”

“You really like it here, then?”

At Felicienne’s question, Antoinetta’s face took a more sombre countenance. “Have you ever lived on the streets? Struggling to get by every day? Lucien Lachance saved my life. When he found me, I was living in a gutter, an inch away from death. I owe him everything,” she stated, ardently. “This place is my true home. I’ve never felt more welcomed or loved.”

The younger blinked, taken aback by Antoinetta’s vehemence. But...she could understand where the other woman came from. Until fairly recently, Felicienne had a home until it was ripped away. Even the Shivering Isles could not replace that, not fully. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She didn’t know what would happen to her after delivering the emperor’s Amulet to the Blades; perhaps she could find some permanency here. As her thoughts began to run away from her, she felt herself eager to fidget, her skin too tight for her.

“I don’t know how you wound up here,” Antoinetta cut into her thoughts, “but there must be a reason for it. I overheard Lucien speaking with Ocheeva and Vicente about you, and that the Listener was rather insistent on you being recruited.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Felicienne ventured, flicking her eyes to the ground. “Everything’s been so...hectic lately.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Antoinetta claimed and clapped a hand on the slightly smaller girl’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t I introduce you to everyone else. And don’t mind M’raaj-Dar, he’s been touchy since everything started happening.”

“What do you mean by ‘everything’?

* * *

 

And everyone had been surprisingly kind, for the most part. Antoinetta’s warning about M’raaj-Dar had been more than helpful, and Felicienne only felt a little bit stung at his frosty reception of her. Meeting the others-Telaendril, Gogron, and Teinaava-had been a relatively painless, if colorful, affair. And they all seemed to love Lachance, given the respect they showed when brought up.

She wondered if he’d broken into any of their bedrooms in the middle of the night. Of course, he did try to kill Telaendril originally, so maybe she was being a tad unfair.

Or everyone here was completely mad. She should know.

Antoinetta Marie told her that she could bunk next to her, and Felicienne jumped on the chance. She unpacked a few of her more basic necessities, like sleeping garments and small clothes. It would take a bit to get used to the communal sleeping arrangements, but frankly that was the least of her concerns at the moment. She still wasn’t sure about killing for money. Killing people she didn’t even know, to boot. But would that really be so different from what she had done already? Not counting those she felled in combat, she killed, murdered, Hirrus Clutumnus. Yes, she could justify it and say that, at the time, he was looking for a way to avoid suicide, but she ultimately received payment for...services rendered. She killed Thadon as well, with an elevation in status as her reward. Granted, she was trying to stop an apocalypse, but still...she killed him in relative cold-blood. And then there was Rufio, despite the fact he was running from his crimes, she killed him out of revenge.

Was murder for hire really that different compared to what she had already done?

She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it, not after breaking it down the way she had. She shut and locked her trunk at the foot of her bed, and flopped down on top of her new bed. Chorrol was a few days away from Cheydinhal, nestled at the base of the Colovian Highlands.

And that was another issue: she had yet to deliver the Amulet that she promised to the emperor. And now Vicente was waiting for her to accept a contract, and she was unsure how long he would be willing to accept her as merely “settling in,” and not “dodging family obligations.” If he were to deem her behavior that latter, what would happen then? Gogron had told her what Lucien had done to another Brother who broke one of the Tenets; would he do the same to her? Worse? He had not been particularly rough or cruel during their initial encounters, but would that last if he suspected any betrayal?

Likely no.

She shivered. If he was a Speaker for the ruling organization of the Dark Brotherhood, chances are he was not exactly renowned for his gentleness. Or mercy. She would endeavor to prolong her stay in his good graces. Her irritation mellowed out in favor of caution; it wouldn’t do for her to be so hot-headed in their encounters, should she encounter him again. Though, Ocheeva did say that he did not come by often at all, so her worrying was likely for naught.

It was hard to keep track of time in the sanctuary but, given Vicente’s condition, she decided to risk his still being up and inquire about that contract that he said he had for her.

* * *

 

As luck would have it, the contract had been for a pirate docked in the Imperial City docks, which, though slightly out of the way, did serve to bring her closer to Chorrol, which was where she found herself now. The contract itself had been fairly simple: she slipped in through the back of the ship, right into the Captain’s Quarters, killed him in his sleep, and picked up a rather unusual plant that she found sitting on his desk. And, if she happened to loot his private chest he kept and found 100 septims, well, she would just consider that a bonus. Best of all, no one had seen her face, despite leaving just as his crew burst into the room. By the time they found their captain it was already too late and she had slipped out the same door she entered through.

She comforted herself with the thought that, as a pirate, he was sure to have committed many horrible crimes. Crimes that, when in High Rock, made her glad that she and her family had lived further inland and not in a port city. Though, that was little comfort when news of bandit raids circulated through town.

As she came nearer to the city gates, she saw a small abbey and chapel. The Priory. At last, she thought. Now, she could unload this necklace and move on with her life, such as it was. She hurried towards the building, and asked the man who greeted her in the yard where she could find Jauffre. Upon learning that he would be in Weynon House, searched for him and found the man sitting behind a desk.

“I’m Brother Jauffre. Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, sharply.

Caught off-guard by his brusqueness, Felicienne stammered that she had been there when the emperor died and was told to give his Amulet to him. She held out the small burden and saw Jauffre’s eyes harden.

“Supposing I believe your story,” he began, holding out his hand into which Felicienne dropped the necklace, “why would he give this to you, and why would you take so long to get here?”

“You know, I didn’t ask to be here. I came here, to Cyrodiil, to just...start over, not become some errand-girl for the Imperials. I have had more than this to deal with over the last month or so,” she snapped. “As for the why did he give this to me part of your question; I have no idea. He said something about my face and the sun’s companion and the Prince of Destruction and closing the jaws of Oblivion…”

“He said that?” Jauffre interrupted.

Snapping her mouth shut, she jerked her head in assent, her shoulders stiff and back rigid.

“He also said that there was another heir.”

“There is,” Jauffre confirmed. “I am one of the few who know about his existence. Years ago, I served as captain of the Blades, and the emperor called me into a room where a baby boy lie sleeping in a basket. He never told me anything else about the child, but it was obvious that Uriel was the father. He asked me to find a safe home for him, and would inquire about the child’s progress from time to time. If he told you about him, then Uriel must have trusted you.”

“There...there wasn’t really a lot of time to assess the situation,” she admitted. Biting her lip, she looked to the ground, remembering that day clearly. “It wasn’t like he had a lot of options to choose from.”

“Still, he saw something in you. You said it yourself. He perceived some threat from Oblivion, and I believe he felt that you can help.” The man nodded, breathing in through his nose before slowly exhaling. “Very well, I will do what I can to aid you, but you first need to find Uriel’s son.”

“Wait, what?”

“His name is Martin, and he serves as a Priest of Akatosh in Kvatch over in Colovia.”

“I’m to find him?”

“Indeed. There’s much the Blades need to prepare for, and I will need to make the necessary arrangements. I will keep the Amulet of Kings safe, and after you find Martin, we will go forward with a plan of action.”

“I hesitate to ask this, but do I even have a say?”

“Uriel saw something in you, and he was infrequently wrong about such things. Of course, I cannot force you to comply with his wishes, but I would think that you might consider this a great deal more important than anything else at this moment, considering the possible threat from Oblivion and Mehrunes Dagon. If nothing else, if you do nothing, don’t you think that would inevitably affect you?”

And there wasn’t much else that she could say to that.

* * *

 

After hitching a ride with a merchant caravan that was traveling to Anvil, which shaved a couple days off of her trip, she arrived at the base of the hill that Kvatch stood, and she began the ascent to the elevated city. The sky was darkening and crackled with electricity and the scent of sulfur wafted down the path. She continued on, still, hoping to make it up the hill before nightfall. Small flecks were falling from the clouds, and for a moment Felicienne thought that the weather might turn. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that it was ash raining down. A ball of ice settled in her stomach, weighing her down as she picked up her pace. Along the way, she was nearly bowled over by a fleeing elf who, in his panicked state, ranted about the town being a lost cause, that they’d been overrun with daedra.

“Daedra? Where did they come from?” she questioned, after grabbing a hold of his arm.

“They opened some sort of gate in the middle of the town square, last night while everyone slept. A gate to Oblivion itself! You have to run while you can! Savlian and his men can’t hold them off forever.” The elf’s voice broke and he brought his hands up to the sides of his head, mumbling “oh gods, oh gods” over and over.  
Felicienne shook him, as gently as she could, and tried to interrupt his melt-down.

“Where are Savlian and his men?”

“They’ve created a barricade outside the remaining gate, but you can’t think of going there. It’s madness. You have to run! Anyone who stays is a fool!”

He wriggled out of her grasp and bolted down the road. The closer she got to the city, the more acrid the air became. The scent of charred flesh and blackened stone became apparent and the distant sound of burning wood could be heard. The heat dragged its claws down her sides, yet the ice that formed in her stomach had yet to melt. She let herself consider the situation if only she’d been a little faster, or hadn’t decided to finish her contract before heading towards Kvatch. She broke out into a sprint only to be confronted with the camp set up for the city’s refugees.

“Where are the guards?”

An Orc woman pointed up the road, and Felicienne nodded at her and darted off, leaving the townsfolk to their grief. The sounds of soft sobbing coming out of a few of the tents echoed in her ears and followed her up the bluff.

She saw a handful of soldiers and a couple daedra as they engaged in a small skirmish at the barricades. The guards eventually overwhelmed them, but no one cheered. She approached the guards cautiously and asked for Savlian. An older Imperial identified himself by that name, and asked her what she thought she was doing in Kvatch at a time like this.

Not thinking, she blurted out, “What happened here?”

Scowling, the man replied, “We lost the damn city; that’s what happened! We were overrun. We couldn’t even get everyone out; there are still civilians inside.”

“What about Brother Martin?”

“Brother Martin? The priest? I saw him leading a small group towards the Chapel of Akatosh, but we haven’t been able to get anyone inside with that damned Oblivion Gate blocking the way.”

The Divines must be laughing at her. Felicienne bit her lip and glanced at the Gate again, feeling that ice crack and bubble in her abdomen.

“Let me help,” she demanded.

“You? Why? What could you possibly do?”

“Look, I need to get in that city. The only way I can do that is if that Gate is closed, and I don’t see you guys being able to do much. If you guys leave, the daedra could easily overrun the camp below, right? That’s why you’re all still out here, isn’t it?”

The man furrowed his brows and exhaled sharply. “I sent it a small contingent of men to figure out how to shut the Gate, but they haven’t returned. I don’t want to risk more men, but if we can’t get it closed….then I don’t know what we can do.”

“I’ll go in. I...I know my way around daedra, and magic; I could figure it out.”

He regarded her with narrowed eyes and held her gaze for some time before he finally acquiesced to her. “Fine, but only because we’re desperate. I hesitate to send someone untrained to do this, but you seem pretty confident you can pull this off. If you can, we’d owe you a great debt.”

Pursing her lips and nodding, Felicienne crept toward the glowing portal, cursing her bad luck and curiosity all the while. The heat it emanated stung her skin until it shone and the aroma of carbon and smoke wrapped its tendrils around her, biting and scratching her flesh and hair. Distantly, she heard the ethereal hum the Gate sang and, taking a deep breath, she leapt.

* * *

 

Though it felt like days, in truth, it was merely hours she was trapped inside the wasteland that was Mehrunes Dagon’s realm of Oblivion. Even in her most horrific nightmares she never witnessed such a place. She still felt the blistering heat on her body, despite the cool rain that poured out of the sky and masked her tears. Her thoughts turned towards Menien Goneld, the man she had to leave behind. All attempts to break open the cage were ineffective, and he finally scolded her for taking so long to close the Gate. He railed at her to leave him, and she knew that he was right. She needed to close the Gate, but...it didn’t feel right, leaving him there.

If he died when the portal collapsed, she hoped it was quick.

“You did it!” Savlian’s voice broke into her thoughts. “You actually did it! We might actually have a chance.

She nodded, her shoulders hunched and back slumped forward. Her hair hung limply around her soot-stained face. Her muscles ached and she just wanted to fall into a heap somewhere and feel sorry for herself. But she needed to press on. She couldn’t just leave now.

“You clearly have some combat experience; maybe even more than some of my men. Why don’t you help us drive the rest of these monsters out?”

She straightened her back and sighed. “As long as you guys don’t mind getting nipped by the random frost spell or two, definitely.”

Securing the southern part of the city was surprisingly fast work and they made their way into the chapel within the hour. Felicienne scanned the room of survivors, and her eyes settled on a brown-haired man in a priest’s robe who was sitting in a pew as the guards spoke to each other. Seating herself next to him, she asked how he was holding up. He remained silent, but she prodded him still.

“The emperor told me to find you.”

“The emperor? He’s dead. Who are you? What do you really want with me?” he turned to look at her sharply.

“You’re Brother Martin, right? The priest?” she ventured. She kept her gaze locked with his, but remained still.

“Yes, I’m a priest. Do you need a priest? I don’t think I will be much use to you; if this is all some part of the gods’ divine plan, I’m not sure I want any part of it.”

“Well, maybe there is a plan. Just not the kind you’re thinking about.”

He scoffed at her and broke their eye contact. Instead, he looked up at the ruined stained glass windows of the chapel. “What plan? I prayed to Akatosh all through the night for someone to help us. There was no help. Only more daedra. The gods have forsaken us.”

“I’ve lost a home, too. No one helped me, either,” she bit out. “It’s horrible. I get it. You’re pissed. You have every right to be. But I have something important to tell you that might help explain why this happened. If that could be any comfort to you. I know I would have appreciated it,” she ended in a mumble.

“What could you possibly know about this? You’re just a girl.”

She narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

“You’re a child.”

“Yeah, a child who closed that Oblivion Gate outside. And, so you know-not that I have to justify myself to you just because you’re middle-aged-I just had my twenty-fourth birthday this past Rain’s Hand. Now, would you listen to me? The emperor sent me to find you because you’re his son.”

“That’s impossible,” he stated. “My father was a farmer.”

“No, your father was Uriel Septim. You’re stepfather was a farmer.”

“Even if what you say is true, how would that explain-oh gods,” he paused as his face grew ashen, “the assassination. You think they were coming after me,” he finished.

“I’d say I know that they were coming after you. We need to get you to Weynon Priory and to Brother Jauffre.”

“I can’t just leave these people for some...flight of fancy you would have me pursue.”

“Do you think I really want to be involved in all of this? You don’t think I would rather be back home, with my family-who, by the way, are no longer around-studying or learning...needlepoint or something, or trying to settle down in the Imperial city until I can move somewhere quieter? Maybe join the Mages’ Guild, and then retire after a nice, long career of doing...Mage’s Guild things. Then just drinking tea by the fireplace in my nice, out-of-the-way home in the countryside. But here I am, rescuing you from daedra instead.”

“Why?”

“Because who else is going to? Honestly? And why would I lie to you? I don’t know you.”

Martin leaned back against the pew and took several deep breaths. After some time, Felicienne opened her mouth to start back up again when Martin let out a drawn out exhale.

“Alright. I’ll go with you. You closed the Oblivion Gate, you saved what’s left of the city. The least I can do is take you at your word.”

She blinked at him, now that she had run out of steam and her eyes grew round, the light of the remaining candles reflecting off of the blue irises.

“Ah, well, well alright then.” She crossed her arms and nodded. “We can rest for the night down at the camp, if you want, and head out in the morning,” she stammered.

* * *

“What do you mean the Amulet of Kings is gone, Brother Jauffre,” Felicienne forced out, her fists clenched at her sides.

“The assassins must have stolen it from its place.”

“I can see that, Brother Jauffre. I thought it was meant to be safe here, Brother Jauffre.”

“I can assure you I did not foresee this happening. We were waylaid by these monsters just a few hours before.”

She pursed her lips and kept her tense stance, arms crossed in front of her, but sighed and looked towards her companion. “On the bright side, I did find Martin and, here is is, safe and sound. Unlike the Amulet of Kings, Brother Jauffre.”

“I think that’s enough,” Martin interjected, laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

She shrugged his hand off but relented. “Fine, you’re right. None of us knew they’d come here. I’m just frustrated. It’s like they know what we’re going to do before we do it.”

“Yes, that is indeed concerning,” Jauffre conceded, his expression matching the Breton’s. “We need to get Martin to Cloud Ruler Temple. It’s the Blades’ hidden fortress and will be the safest place for Martin while we try to sort out this situation.”

“And where is this fortress, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“In the Jerall Mountains, near Bruma.”

“All that way?”

“Is that a problem?” he asked, crossing his arms and frowning at her.

“I suppose not, but we better get going; we have a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time to do it in. And I sort of need to get back to Cheydinhal sometime in the near future. I have some matters to...settle.”

“We can leave as soon as you both are ready.”

“I don’t have much with me,” Martin added, “The sooner we reach Cloud Ruler Temple, the better.” Jauffre and Martin both looked towards Felicienne. Realizing they were waiting for her signal she slumped.

“Am I leading, then? Oh that’s just great, I hope you both understand that me getting lost is what got me into a lot of this mess, so someone better help me with directions. But I’m ready, we can head out now.”

* * *

 

Felicienne was positive that the trip to the Jerall Mountains was the absolute worst journey she’d ever taken. On Mundus, anyway. She would take the same trip past Bruma a dozen times if it meant she never had to go back to Oblivion. Mehrunes Dagon must have been a psychopath to build such a world. It was nothing like Sheogorath’s. With a curious pang, she recalled the vibrant colors of Mania and the twisted and gnarled mushroom trees of Dementia. She felt herself missing the Isles and even their residents. She even missed Haskill’s biting sarcasm when they spoke. At least he gave her fairly clear directions, under the--poor--guise of letting her run the show.

She even missed Relmyna Verenim, despite how strangely affectionate she’d become towards Felicienne.

Everything in Mundus was grey, she noted as her gaze roved the landscape. Especially in the mountains where they found themselves. Grey and cold and dim, not unlike her home in Jehanna with it’s frost covered roof and burned out interior. Everything was grey there, too.

As their group was greeted by the Blades, and the pomp and circumstance overwhelmed poor Martin, she turned to grin at him, gesturing him ahead of her before they stepped into the main dining hall.

“Well, what are you waiting for. Your majesty,” she added, gesturing to him.

Ducking his head, Martin led the way into Cloud Ruler Temple.

* * *

 

“I don’t understand,” Martin sighed, once they settled in to the temple. They sat across from each other in front of the hearth, both trying to dispel the bite of the Frostfall Jerall air. Martin leaned against the back of his chair, the shadows from the dancing firelight flickering across his face, causing the fine lines around his eyes and mouth to appear more pronounced.

Felicienne looked up, furrowing her brows and tilting her head to the side at his exhalation.

“The Oblivion Gate,” he amended. “Everything I know about daedric magic tells me that such a stable portal shouldn’t be possible.”

She let out a laugh and grinned. “What does a Priest of Akatosh know about daedric magic?”

“I wasn’t always a priest, you know. I wasn’t born to it.” His eyes drifted behind her, to a point past her shoulder. “Let’s just say I was young once, and impatient, and got in over my head.”

She nodded. “I know what you mean,” she grumbled. “I still can’t believe Jauffre asked me to be a member of the Blades,” she mused, changing the subject.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t accept.”

“It’s not really for me. No offense, I mean, it’s not personal. I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a bodyguard.” She sighed and slipped of the seat, edging closer to the fireplace and she felt the tingle of heat spread across the surface of her skin. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, tasting the melted snowdrops that landed their, savoring their coolness.

“I don’t know about that,” he mused. She felt his eyes on her, the tell tale prickling of the nape of her neck turned her face away from the fire to look towards him again. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” he added. “You can’t possibly be comfortable on the floor,” Martin admonished, leaning forward in his chair.  
“I like sitting on the floor,” she defended, crossing her legs beneath her. “Besides, I was getting cold sitting that far away.”

“Not used to the cold?”

“Please. I’m from High Rock, near the Skyrim border. I’m fine with cold. I just also like getting warm.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Where in High Rock? I know you said the Western Reach, but that’s a large place.”

“Jehanna.”

“Your name is interesting, then. Not typical for a Reachman.”

Felicienne shifted in her place and tugged at the hem of her shirt. “My father was from the south, and I’m named for someone in his family. And it’s not like we’re all barbarians, living in caves and wearing animal pelts. Plenty of us in the Reach live in society and go to temple.”

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” he soothed. She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“I know. Sorry.” She sat, silent for a time, before she broke the quiet. “My mother did want to name me Bloudeuwedd.” She chuckled to herself. “You see why my father stopped her.”

“It’s a lovely name.”

“It’s awful and you know it.”

“What is your mother’s name?”

“My mother’s?” She turned back towards the hearth and stared at the coals through the flames. She watched the way the glow of heat glided across their surface. “She was Eirlys.” She heard him sigh behind her and the wood of the chair creak under his weight as he moved.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-”

“It’s fine. She’s gone. They both are. Life in the Reach is difficult, civilized or not. I was lucky.”

“How-”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.”

He nodded, then cleared his throat when she remained in her current position. “Of course. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just been a long day. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Just not today.” She looked over her shoulder, back towards Martin, grinning. “Maybe around the same time you tell me how a Priest of Akatosh is so knowledgeable about daedric magic?”

He smiled at her, and rose from his seat. She laughed again and let her gaze follow him before drifting over to the large windows in front and watched the snowflakes, illuminated by torchlight, pirouette their descent to Nirn, contrasted by the black sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note: I don't have a beta-reader; I do all my own proofreading, so sometimes I miss some things. I do try my best, but mistakes inevitably pop up where I don't want them to. Feedback is more than welcome, and I encourage constructive criticism. If you like the story, please feel free to comment or even just leave a kudos. I appreciate it. Thank you for reading.


	3. Winding Paths

 

Given the events of the last few days, Felicienne felt it was rather good timing on her part that she managed to make it back to Cheydinhal within the month. Martin was settled into Cloud Ruler Temple where he and Jauffre would do some more research into the Amulet of Kings and its role with lighting the Dragonfires, but for now they told her there was little she could do. Jauffre was still waiting on word from one of his agents in the Imperial City.

 

So she went back to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary to tell Vicente she had completed her task. 

 

Three weeks ago. 

 

They couldn’t have forgotten about her. 

 

She walked in, a little disoriented that everything still looked the same. 

 

“Look who decided to show back up,” M’raaj-Dar said behind his book. 

 

“Some things came up,” she shot back. “It got a little out of hand. I still fulfilled my contract.”

 

“Did I do anything to indicate I care?”

 

Scowling, she brushed past his chair on her way down to Vicente’s chambers, leaving him to read in peace.

 

“You’re back,” Vicente stated when she stepped into his room.

 

“Yes, sorry for the delay,” she mumbled. “I hadn’t meant to be gone for so long.”

 

“Do not concern yourself with that. I had already heard of your success at the docks. We were concerned, however, that something may have happened to you afterwards.”

 

She shook her head, her eyebrows raised and eyes widened.  Licking her lips, she muttered a negative response and that she was fine, if a little tired from the trip. 

 

He smiled at her, and no matter how much she tried to keep herself from flinching, it still unnerved her to see the flash of fang between his lips. He seemed to enjoy her reaction though, since he let out a small chuckle at her discomfort. “We care about our family members, though sometimes it is inevitable that harm falls upon one. Especially in this line of work,” he paused before adding, “How was your first paid contract?”

 

“It was...interesting,” she answered honestly. “I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. I grew up hearing stories about pirates and I’ve always been a bit frightened of them. Other than that, it was a little...easy.”

 

“Yes, I did not think you would have much trouble with that one. I will have another contract for you, if you are interested.”

 

She nibbled her lip and turned the idea over in her mind. “Yes, I suppose. Is it alright if I don’t head out right away?”

 

“Of course, but do make sure you do not delay too long; the client is growing restless. I was saving this one for you to see how you handle a more...delicate situation.”

 

“I just want to stay in for a day or two; nothing too long.”

 

“Very well,” he conceded while he walked over to his desk. “I don’t believe that will be a problem. The target is a Wood Elf named Baenlin. The client would like for his death to appear as an accident. There is a bonus involved if you complete the task to its specifications.”

 

“Specifications?”

 

“Baenlin has a large, mounted minotaur head above his favorite arm chair. The client would like you to loosen the fastenings so that it falls on him.”

 

She knew she could do that. She often made a point to get around without attracting too much attention anyway. She would just need to be extra careful. “Sounds easy enough,” she said.

 

“Just make sure you watch out for the servant, Gromm. And don’t kill him.”

“Even if he attacks me?”

“Just don’t be seen.” Then he laughed at her. 

 

* * *

 

“You’re back!” Antoinette Marie exclaimed, hugging the younger girl. 

 

Felicienne let out a small ‘oomph’ as the air was squeezed out of her lungs by the exuberant woman. 

 

“How did it go?”

 

“It went fine. A little uneventful.”

 

“Then what took you so long to get back?”

 

“Unrelated business. Took quite a bit longer than I thought it would.”

 

“We thought something might have happened.”

 

Felicienne paused at looked at Antoinetta, a frown tugging on her mouth. 

 

“You’re the second person to say that; you can’t all be that concerned about my welfare. Is there something going on?”

 

Antoinetta gazed at the girl, her clear green eyes reflected the candlelight of the sanctuary. Shadows flickered across her pale skin as she worried the inside of her cheek. “Things can happen on jobs. But, more than that…” she trailed off while she wrinkled her forehead. “There have been certain...things going on, lately. Lucien and Ocheeva, and even Vicente have been trying to keep it quiet but, apparently, some family members have been murdered.”

 

“Murdered? Really?”

 

“Yes! No one knows who’s behind it. There’s...talk...of a traitor.”

 

That was disconcerting to say the least. That would put most people on edge. And would explain why everyone here seemed so surprised she came back at all. Though she couldn’t imagine any benefit coming from her death. Not in the Dark Brotherhood, anyway. She sighed, recalling the assassins she and Martin encountered at the priory.  

 

“Ah, I’m sorry, sister, you shouldn’t trouble yourself with such thoughts. It’s no one here, I can assure you that.”

 

Felicienne laughed. “I didn’t think it would be. Besides, I think the only one I would have to be worried about is M’raaj-Dar. If it weren’t for the Tenets, he probably would have immolated me by now.”

 

Antoinetta opened her mouth, presumably to protest, but then snapped it shut and grinned at her fellow Breton. Then, her smile softened and she went to speak again. “Lucien actually stopped by, while you were away. I heard him ask Vicente about you.”

 

“Probably to see if I’d gone and died on my first job,” she joked, rolling her eyes. 

 

“Maybe.”

 

Felicienne looked at her with her eyebrow raised, but Antoinetta no longer appeared inclined to provide any more information. “Well,” she broke, “that was...nice...of him, I suppose.”

 

“You don’t care much for him, do you?” Antoinetta inquired, brow raised and arms crossed. “You’ve been a bit cold whenever our Speaker is brought up.”

 

The darker haired woman started, chewing on her lip as she contemplated her answer. She shifted her weight side to side before parting her lips to respond. “I’m not. I...don’t really know him, do I? Other than he’s broken into my bedroom twice in the middle of the night. Undetected. While I’m in various states of undress.”

 

“Are you afraid of him?”

 

Felicienne looked at the blonde, pointedly. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind him breaking into your rooms,” she mumbled. Antoinetta cleared her throat and turned her head away from the younger woman. The brunette huffed, and gazed off towards the living quarters before she continued, “I don’t really know him.”

 

“As long as you’re loyal to our family, you won’t have to worry about Lucien.”

 

“Yeah, I know that. It’s just…this is a really strange point in my life,” Felicienne muttered. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just feeling a bit tetchy is all. Still getting used to everything, I suppose. I’m sorry for being waspish.”

 

“You’ll be fine,” the older woman assured her. “So, what’s your new contract?”

 

“Staging an accident, apparently,” Felicienne responded, grateful for the change of topic. 

 

“Ooh, where?”

 

“Up in Bruma.”

 

“You do get around, don’t you?”

 

“It’s really not my fault.”

The two women fell into a companionable silence, walking together towards the dining hall. As they walked, Felicienne took a moment to study her friend. Antoinetta Marie was a very beautiful woman: she stood somewhat taller than Felicienne, had bright blonde hair, clear skin, and vibrant green eyes. It was so strange to think of the woman as an assassin, though Felicienne heard enough evidence to prove that she was indeed quite brutal. During their somewhat infrequent, as of late, interactions, Felicienne found herself to be quite jealous of the other Breton. She had the features she had always wanted back home in High Rock. Where Antoinetta was bright and alluring, Felicienne felt diminished by her. Her hair was quite dark, her complexion too pale and, at times, ashen, and she was quite small; the diminutive nature of her build was enough that people often thought her younger than she was, as Martin had pointed out weeks ago. There was very little that was remarkable about her appearance. Her personality even less so. 

 

“Are you alright?” her companion asked.

 

“I’m fine, just...a bit homesick.” 

 

Antoinetta nodded, trying to empathize with the younger girl. She supposed that if she had had a home before the Dark Brotherhood and Lucien, she might miss it as well. Felicienne did not discuss much of her past, and, on a whole, it appeared as if there wasn’t much to know about the girl. Even eavesdropping on Ocheeva and Lucien didn’t garner much more information than what the younger Breton disclosed to everyone else. 

 

* * *

 

Sneaking into Baenlin’s home had been rather simple. Stealth had often been a strong suit of Felicienne’s, and with her penchant for the school of illusion, the job proved to be little challenge at all. The manservant hadn’t even noticed her presence, which was fortunate because he was a rather large man and she had no doubt in her mind that, if caught, he would give her quite the beating. Still, hearing his cry at finding his former employer dead startled something in her. By all accounts from around town, the elf seemed like a pleasant fellow. She hadn’t allowed herself to ponder over her actions while in the middle of the job, but now that she was safely outside of Bruma’s walls and her adrenaline slowed, she recalled the events that had transpired only hours before. It wasn’t like killing Rufio or the pirate, Gaston Tussaud; both men had absolutely deserved to meet justice at the wrong end of a sharp blade. Or correct end, depending on one’s perspective. 

 

The elf felt different. 

 

Someone had just wanted him dead, for whatever reason. 

 

The cold bit into her skin, even through the leather armor she wore. A chill that made its presence known long before she stepped foot in Bruma; the same foreboding presence that never strayed far from the corners of her mind, that took the form of a dark cloak and dark eyes.

 

She trudged along through the snow, her boots crunched through the icy layer as the light of Masser and Secunda reflected off of the ground and cast an eerie glow before Felicienne’s eyes. Tired, her pace was somewhat sluggish as she made her way up to Cloud Ruler Temple. She hadn’t planned on going back this quickly, but her limbs were leaden and her mind fogged. The girl just wanted to get some warm food in her stomach and curl up next to the large hearth in the main hall. 

It was a good two hours walk from the town to the temple, and she doubted anyone else would still be up, beyond a skeleton night patrol. Perhaps the embers would still be glowing in the fireplace when she arrived. If nothing else, she could grab a quick breakfast in the morning before she headed out again. If Martin and the Blades didn’t need her here first, in any case. 

 

She pushed the doors open, as softly as she could to not disturb anyone’s sleep and crept towards the chairs in front of the still-burning coals. She jumped when someone uttered an, “oh, you’re back so soon?”

“Martin,” she gasped. “I didn’t see you there,” she whispered over the pounding of her heart. 

He let out a soft chuckle and stood from his seat. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You looked like you were concentrating; I didn’t want to alarm you. It appears I’ve done so anyway.” 

 

“What are you still doing up?” she muttered.

 

“I could ask you the same.”

 

“I had some business in town. It concluded...late. And I don’t want to spend money on an inn.”

“I was speaking earlier with Jauffre about our next move regarding the Amulet of Kings and how we’re going to get it back.” He gestured to the chair across from the one he just vacated. “You should have a seat; you look exhausted.”

 

She nodded, feeling her throat tighten as she looked at him again. She settled herself into the seat. “It’s been a long day,” she mumbled, turning her face towards the dying light. 

 

“I didn’t expect to see you back before Jauffre sent for you. Which,” he interrupted himself, “he was planning to do tomorrow. So your arrival is most fortuitous.”

 

“That’s my specialty: fortuitous timing,” she uttered, forcing the words through the sand that lined her larynx. 

 

“I’ve just been studying the Amulet, during my time here. I fear we have a long way to go before we have anything.”

 

“Did the sigil stone I left behind help at all?”

 

“It’s given some insight into how these Gates are constructed. More research is needed, I’m afraid.”

 

She nodded again, blinking her eyes to clear her vision from the heat of the fire, and drew her knees up under her chin, catching the heels of her boots on the edge of the seat. She heard the rustle of Martin’s robes and the scrape of wood against the floor as he sat down again across from her. 

 

“Are you feeling alright?”

 

“It’s just been a long day.”

 

His face soon dominated her field of vision; she hadn’t even noticed him moving. “You’ve done quite a bit already, for everyone. If there’s something on your mind, you can speak with me, if you wish.”

 

She swallowed, her throat bobbing up and down as she pressed her tongue into the roof of her mouth. She went to open and close her mouth several times before she shook her head and smiled. “I’m fine. Really. It’s kind of you to offer.” 

 

He brought his hand to her shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze, the warmth from it radiating from his palm into the leather she wore. 

 

“I thought you’d be younger,” she blurted out.

 

He drew his hand back, starting at her voice. “What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t know, just, when the Emperor told me about you, and you being the youngest and illegitimate I just thought that...I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry. I’m tired. That was really rude of me. I’m sorry. Not that you’re old; you’re not. I mean, Emperor Uriel’s other sons were in their 50s and 60s, I believe." She chewed on her lip and frowned and muttered, "Please stop listening to me.” She looked up at him from where she sat, watching the light illuminate strands of his hair, creating a copper glow around his crown, and she swallowed, her throat catching on the way down. Her gaze drifted back to the heart and she gave a wan smile. “It’s different than it is in children’s books," she told him. "There’s no princess in a tower and there aren't always heroes, are there?”*

 

Martin listened to her, watched the way the embers and candlelight reflected in her eyes and the glow of her blue irises. “You’re right,” he conceded. “It’s not a fairytale.” He offered his hand to her and shivered when she placed the appendage within his; the chill from her skin soaked into him. “You should get to bed; I imagine Jauffre will want to speak with you fairly early tomorrow morning,” he stated, helping her up. He opened his mouth again, but caught himself before he could say anything else. 

 

“Hopefully there’s a bedroll left in the barracks,” she murmured, smiling at him. “I was actually planning on sleeping on the chair out here, but I won’t disturb you any longer.”

He parted his lips to respond, but she glided out of the room, the watery footprints and the kiss of frost in his palm the only evidence she’d even been there. 

 

* * *

 

In the early hours, Felicienne perched herself on the edge of one of the watchtowers, ignoring the Blade who stood behind her.

 

“You don’t need to be out here,” he grumbled.

 

“I like the sunrise.”

 

She’d not slept well the night before, the events of the day plaguing her even in her sleep. She watched as the developing rose of the sky dissolved the jeweled canopy that enveloped the world minutes ago. She pressed her face against the wooden balustrade and sank into it. Its weathered surface scraping against her cheek settled the twists and knots that found their way into her abdomen; she considered what lay ahead of her when she arrived back in Cheydinhal. She supposed she could just leave. She didn’t need to go back to the Dark Brotherhood at all. But where would she go? Would she stay with the Blades? She thought not; she was a murderer. They would never accept her if they ever found out about that. The Dark Brotherhood would likely find her, as well. And, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, a soldier’s life wasn’t exactly something she felt cut-out for. It wasn’t as though she could just hop back to the Isles; she was still needed on Nirn. Perhaps when the Oblivion Crisis, as the paper was calling it, was sorted and Martin firmly set on the Ruby Throne she would take herself away to the realm of Sheogorath. 

 

But even there, she was alone. 

 

A shout broke into her reverie, and she hopped up to face whoever intruded into her thoughts. As she calmed, she noticed it was another Blade. Younger than the one she had been seated near. 

 

“Master Jauffre needs to see you!”

 

“I’ll be right there.”

 

She left behind the watchtower and made her way back inside the temple to find Jauffre who was sitting at one of the dining tables in the Great Hall. 

 

“You wanted to see me?”

 

He glanced up from the book he was reading and fixed her with a steady gaze. “Yes, I’ve heard back from one of my agents in the Imperial City. I believe you’ve met him, actually,” he stated. At her raised eyebrow, he clarified, “He’s a Blade by the name of Baurus; he was with the Emperor when the assassins attacked in the secret passageway.”

 

Felicienne’s mouth formed a soft ‘o’ as she recalled the remaining guard in the Imperial Prison, the one who'd tried to tell her how to get to Chorrol, who'd given her his map. She’d hardly remembered his name. 

 

“I need you to meet him at Luther Broad’s Boarding House in the City. It seems he’s uncovered something about the plot to eradicate the Septim line and a start to where we might be able to find the Amulet of Kings.”

 

“So, I’m going back to the Imperial City then?”

 

“Is that a problem?”

 

She held up her hands, palms forward, and shook her head. “No, no, just making sure.” She paused, pulling on her shirt and moving her weight from side to side. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

 

Jauffre exhaled, “No, the sooner you leave the soon you’ll meet with Baurus, and time is absolutely of the essence. Just,” he paused, “is everything alright?”

 

“Has Martin said something?” At his sharp look, she lowered her eyes. “I mean, has Emperor Martin said something?” she relented, scuffing her boot along the floor. 

 

“Not in so many words, but yes he appears concerned for you.” 

 

“I’m fine, really. I do have a lot on my plate.”

 

Jauffre nodded and steepled his fingers in front of his chest while leaning forward to rest on the table more. He regarded her, his expression sombre. “We--I--am asking a lot from you, I know. We would not ask if it was not absolutely necessary. Any one of us Blades would trade places with you. But Uriel saw something in you--something made him feel that you were most suited to this task. And, it pains me to admit it, you’ve already done more than prove him right.”

 

Felicienne stepped back, her face flooding with warmth as she processed his words. She finally found her voice and stuttered out, “Thank you, Jauffre.” She composed herself, and shoved her hands into her breeches’ pockets. “You didn’t have to say all that. I was going to go anyway. But-” she paused, looking off to the side, a smile tugging on her lips and making them twitch “-I appreciate that you said it.” 

 

“Yes, well, off you go then,” he said and cleared his throat. He began to gather the books in front of him, stacking them into neat piles. “Baurus is waiting for you at Luther Broad’s. Best not to keep him waiting too long. We need that information.”

 

She rolled her eyes made her way back down towards the barracks in order to retrieve her satchel. She left Cloud Ruler Temple just as the sun burst over the Valus Mountains.

* * *

 

Felicienne looked down at the body of, as Baurus told her, Astav Wirich with her dagger still clenched in her fist and his blood still dripping over her knuckles. Baurus patted her on the the back. “It really is good to see you. Thanks for you help. My investigation seems to have ruffled some feathers. We should search him for anything that might be useful.”

 

Sheathing her blade, she crouched down and opened the messenger bag Wirich had still strapped to him. It was heavy as she lifted it up and rifled through it, and her hand grasped the spine of a thick tome. She pulled it out, dropping the bag, and ran her fingers over the embossed letter spread over the cover. Her lips formed the shapes of the words, and she turned back towards Baurus. “‘Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes?’ Does that mean anything to you?” she asked. “It looks daedric,” she added, flipping through the pages and seeing the symbols that decorated sections of the book. 

 

“Not really my area of expertise, but you might want to head over to the Arcane University. Tar-Meena is the resident expert on daedric cults; she’s helped the Blades a few times. She would know more than I do.” 

 

“So, then you think a daedric cult is behind the assassination? I guess that makes sense,” she mused as she slipped the book into her own pack before continuing, “the people we encountered under the prison, they had bound armour and weapons, and the Emperor did mention ‘the Prince of Destruction.’ Jauffre seems to think it’s a reference to Mehrunes Dagon. I suppose it’s not surprising now, now that the Mysterium Xarxes is involved. Sort of. Also, the Oblivion Gate in Kvatch kind of gave that away. At least, from what I remember reading about Dagon.” At Baurus’ raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “I had family members in the Mage’s Guild in High Rock; a couple studied daedra and liked to talk during holidays.”

 

“Of course,” he said. “No Mage’s Guild for you? Fine Breton that you are, anyway.”

 

She glanced off to the side, cheeks turning pink. “I don’t really have the right temperament for it.”

 

Baurus laughed, the force of it shaking his shoulders. “You don’t say.” He paused, exhaling through his nose and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I need to alert the city guards about what happened, and so they can clean up. You should head over to Tar-Meena and see if she can help.”

 

“On it,” she confirmed, patting her bag and gesturing towards the door of the basement. “I’ll just leave you here then, to talk to the guards, I mean. I’d like to avoid getting thrown in prison again, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“You know that it’s noted you’ve been pardoned. You’ve more than earned it.”

 

She shrugged and ascended the staircase, grinning back at him. 

 

When she stepped outside, Magnus hung low in the sky, just above the top of the walls of the Elven Garden District of the city, its light bouncing off the sides of white-stone buildings, the scent of wet cobblestone wafted around her as she breathed in, filling her lungs with the crisp late-afternoon air. She exhaled puffs of fog that rose and dissipated before her face while walking towards the University. Hopefully, she would arrive early enough that she could see someone. She kept her head down, as it wasn’t long since she was here for the Dark Brotherhood, though she had no plans to head to the Waterfront as she heard that the Marie Elena was still docked in the harbor. 

 

There was little desire for her to risk running into any of the captain’s former crew, despite the unlikelihood of them recognizing her. 

 

She made her strides long and direct as she hurried through the city, and before long stood at the entrance of the rather magnificent Arcane University. She watched the purple flames that lit the path dance and flicker while she walked along the stone path. Upon entering the tower, she asked a mage if he knew where she might be able to find a Tar-Meena. The mage pointed to an Argonian woman sitting at some distance from the door, reading. Thanking him for his time, she walked over to Tar-Meena and introduced herself to the other woman. When asked for what Felicienne wanted, the Breton asked what she knew of the Commentaries of the Mysterium Xarxes. 

 

“I’m working with the Blades,” she added. 

 

Tar-Meena gave the girl a brief rundown of the history of both the Commentaries and their author: Mankar Camoran, the founder of the Mythic Dawn cult. She also confirmed what Baurus and Felicienne already suspected; it was a daedric cult dedicated to Mehrunes Dagon who was behind the attack on the Septim line. The mage lent Felicienne the second volume, but told her that the University Library did not carry the third or fourth volumes, and that they were near-impossible to obtain. However, Tar-Meena reassured, The First Edition may be able to order the third volume. From her studies, she was sure that the fourth volume would have to come from a member of the cult itself. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This line was inspired, and partially taken from, an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer called "Lie to Me."


	4. Through Dawn and Dusk

“That little pissant,” Felicienne griped, two days later after Baurus finished his breakfast, and she slammed the third volume of “Commentaries” down on the table in front of him. The Redguard tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows at her actions. She continued, her voice high-pitched, “I’ve danced naked in the moonlight during Heart’s Day for Lord Sanguine and divined under the gaze of Vaermina and I’m a big experienced daedra-worshipping Wood Elf.” She crossed her arms, glaring down at the book. “He had a meeting with someone called The Sponsor set up--in the sewers, by the way--to get the fourth volume. Made me buy this one for 100 gold.”

 

“That’s great. When is the meeting supposed to take place?”

 

“You’re not even going to ask how it went?”

 

“I think I can already tell. What’s important is that you got the book.”

 

“Sure, sure. The meeting is for this afternoon. Here, I think. In the sewers, I mean. The Elven Garden sewers.”

 

“Good, I can show you where we’ll be headed then.”

 

“You’re going with me?”

 

“You need someone who’s experienced with undercover work. I think you, especially.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“You know what it means.”

 

“I can do undercover. I’m inconspicuous.”

 

There was a long pause before Felicienne huffed and flopped down into the stool next to her companion as she continued to insist she’d be fine alone. 

 

“I’m a Blade; it’s my duty to do this. It’s the least I can do. For the Emperor.”

 

She turned towards him and nodded. She fell silent for the remainder of the morning.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Baurus and Felicienne escaped the sewers with the fourth volume and their lives, though Baurus refused to see a healer. Despite her protests that she did poorly with convalescence spells, she patched him up as best she could, given the circumstances. She hadn’t expected the two patrolling cultists that headed towards her hiding spot while Baurus was meeting with the Altmer--who happened to be Camoran’s son, of all people--and things spiralled downhill from there. He insisted on heading back to Cloud Ruler Temple to be with Martin, but Felicienne wrangled a promise from him that he would stay in Luther Broad’s until the next day at least, if only to get some rest. She assured him that she would go see Tar-Meena without him, now that they had the whole collection in their possession. 

 

The next morning, when Felicienne headed out, she was unsurprised to find that Baurus had left even before the sun rose, and packed her own things up before she left for the University, as she planned on heading out herself. Away from the Imperial City, at least. She had stayed up the previous night, looking over the series, her eyes throbbing as the hours wore on. It just seemed like the rantings of a fanatic, to her. A power-hungry one, at that. She shivered, feeling the cold of the city settle into her as she crossed the threshold to the University Tower once again.

 

Meeting with Tar-Meena was quick, as the Argonian--apparently--had other duties to attend to, but she felt that the key to what they were looking for lay in the books. With a sigh, Felicienne headed back towards the Boarding House; it didn’t appear as if she would be leaving the Imperial City today. 

 

She slumped back down onto her bed, glad that no one rented out the room in the time she’d been gone, and dumped the books back onto it’s somewhat soft surface. The more she stared, the less the damn things made any sense, however, one detail caught her eye: the font of the first letter of every paragraph was in a different style. That’s an expensive maneuver, she thought, since it was such a fine detail to have done to every single paragraph, instead of once a chapter, as was the standard. When she realized what she was looking at, she tapped her head against the wall and snapped the books shut and took off again.

 

* * *

 

And that’s how she arrived at Lake Arrius. At a cave. That, apparently, housed the meeting place for the Mythic Dawn. 

 

She was going to infiltrate it. Or die. It wasn’t clear at that point. What was clear, however, was that she found herself right in the middle of where she absolutely did not want to be. 

“There’s always a passphrase,” she mumbled, pushing the wooden door open so she could enter the damp cavern.  

 

An Imperial cloaked in red greeted her on sight. “Dawn is breaking.”

 

She took a deep breath. “Greet the new day.”

 

A smile bloomed across his face and he placed an arm around her shoulders, steering her down one of the passages, speaking as he did so. “Welcome, sister. The hour is late, but the Master still has need of willing hands. I will take you to Harrow, who will lead you to the Master for your initiation into Lord Dagon’s service.” When they approached the larger antechamber, he led her to a Dark Elf, presumably the aforementioned Harrow. “Do not tarry,” the Imperial stated, “the time of Cleansing is almost here.” And he spun on his heel and exited down the hallway they came in from. 

 

“Welcome sister!” the Dark Elf enthused. “I am the Warden of the Shrine, and you,” he clasped her hand, “have come at the most opportune time. You will have the honor of being inducted by Mankar Camoran himself. As a member of the Mythic Dawn, you shall have all you need provided for you out of the Master’s bounty. Please, leave your things with me and put on these robes.” 

 

She clutched her bag tighter, staring at the scarlet robes laid out over a piece of furniture behind Harrow. She swallowed and took a deep breath in, counting as she allowed to it escape through her nostrils and felt it tickle her upper lip. Her tongue darted out to wipe away the beads of sweat that gathered there, and she took notice of Harrow’s narrowing eyes. She thrust her bag towards him and laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had a long trip here. Forgive me.”

 

He smiled and bent to retrieve her robes. “That’s quite alright. The journey here is arduous, but well worth it, I can assure you.”

 

When he handed the clothing to her and stood still in front of her, she hesitated. Face flaming now, she started to unbuckle the fastenings of her amber armour, her fingers fumbling over the clasps as she tried to shrug out of the cuirass. 

 

He made a humming sound. “That’s an unusual set of armour,” he noted. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Where did you procure it?”

 

“From back home,” she mumbled. Clearing her throat, she stood straighter after working the piece from her shoulders. “Blacksmith in High Rock. Makes the most amazing things.” Clad in only her smallclothes now, her form shivered and she shrugged the robe on with a sigh and pulled the hood up over her hair. She grimaced at the way her new clothing glided along her bare legs and rustled in the breeze. 

 

“Very good. Let us walk into the Shrine together.”

 

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a facsimile of a smile that she hoped appeared more appealing than it felt. They arrived, it seemed, just as Camoran was delivering a sermon to a rather large group of cultists. The light emanating from the torches and that filtered in from a rocky opening in the chamber ceiling caught on something around the Altmer’s neck. She sucked in a breath and her back stiffened when he turned towards her direction. 

 

“Praise be,” he exclaimed. “The Dragon Throne is empty, and we hold the Amulet of Kings. Praise be to your brothers and sisters. Great shall be their reward in Paradise! Hear now the words of Lord Dagon,” he looked down towards a tome he had spread before him. “‘When I walk the earth again, the faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other mortals forever. As for the rest…the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.’” He raised his head back towards his audience and held his arms up. “Your reward, brothers and sisters: the time of cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!”*

 

There were at least fifteen people in the room with her and she felt her stomach drop to her feet as she watched a portal open up and Camoran evaporated into thin air, taking the damn Amulet with him. The member who accompanied Camoran summoned Felicienne to the altar, and the girl noticed the book Camoran read from remained on the stand, and an Argonian priest was laid out on a slab of stone under the statue of Dagon. There person who summoned her, an Altmer woman, met her in the center of the stage. She handed the Breton a dagger and gestured towards the Argonian. “Dagon thirsts for red-drink,” she declared. “Kill the priest and your initiation will be complete.”

 

Clutching the blade in her hand, Felicienne’s eyes darted between the elf, the Argonian, and the book, her breath becoming shallower as each second passed. She heard the audience grow restless and murmurs filtered through the thick atmosphere of the shrine. 

 

“Gods damn it,” she muttered. 

 

The elf woman furrowed her brows a second before Felicienne plunged the dagger under her ribs, on the right side. The Altmer let out a hoarse cry, and made to swipe at the Breton but missed her mark. Felicienne took the opportunity to pull the blade free and stab the side of her neck, now that the woman woman was bent over. A moment of stillness passed over the crowd before a cacophony of rage poured over Felicienne’s ears. She ran over to the sacrificial slab and shook the Argonian, hitting him with a convalescence spell. 

 

“Wake up, wake the fuck up,” she hissed. He jolted up and whipped his head back and forth, surveying the encroaching mob. She shoved the dagger, grip first, into his hand and demanded, through clenched teeth, “Go. You need to go. You need to go yesterday.”

 

“But-”

 

“Don’t argue. I’ll be fine. Just fucking go.” A fireball whizzed passed her head, singeing a couple strands before striking the statue in front of her. The Argonian lept up, a bit unsteady, but hobbled as swiftly as possible towards the exit. 

 

Felicienne turned back towards the cultists and sent a frostbolt towards a couple members closest to reaching her. She needed to find Harrow. 

 

She was blindsided by the blow of a mace to the left side of her head. Her world exploded in stars, and she staggered for a moment before grabbing a hold of her attacker and sending a jolt of electricity through them. She grabbed the mace from his corpse and swung, the motion a wide arc that--to her astonishment--clipped another person. 

 

For some time it continued, the sounds of raging fire and the violent silence of ice ringing in the chamber before she struck Harrow with a stray frostbolt, and he dropped where he stood: at the center podium. Seeing her opening she darted for him, grabbing her bag from him. When she turned around, she saw the book still sitting open on display. She reached for it and shuddered when her hands made contact. 

 

“She has the Mysterium Xarxes!” someone shouted. “Don’t let her leave!”

 

She shoved it into her pack, then swung it around to knock a Nord who had snuck up behind her in the head. She ran, her feet hitting the stone floor and aches shooting up her ankles and shins. She ran towards the main opening, cursing herself the whole time for not keeping the Staff with her. She cursed Martin and Jauffre and Baurus and Uriel. And most of all, she cursed her horrid luck as she burst through the cavern door and into the brisk evening, the light of Masser and Secunda shrouded as they hid their faces from Nirn. 

 

* * *

 

A week later, Felicienne managed her way back to Cloud Ruler Temple. 

 

After hiding out in the Jerall Mountains since the incident at Lake Arrius, she made sure she was not being followed before going back to the Blades and Martin. When she skulked through the door, once again late in the evening, Martin was there to greet her. 

 

He rose from his seat and grasped her shoulders. “By the Nine, we were starting to worry. It’s been nearly a fortnight with no word from you,” he told her. 

 

“It got messy,” she stated. 

 

He took in the green and yellow bruising around her face and the dishevelled state of her hair along with the deep shadows under her eyes. “Where were you?” he questioned. 

 

“Dagon Shrine. I couldn’t get the Amulet back.” She looked down, tense in front of him. 

 

Martin swore an oath, and Felicienne glanced back up at him with her eyebrows raised and grinned. He cleared his throat and stepped back from her. She rocked back on her heels and held her bag up to him. He frowned at her and she rolled her eyes.

 

“I was, however, able to get,” she paused, opening her pack with a flourish and retrieved a thick manuscript from within and thrust it in his face, “this.”

 

Martin’s expression darkened. “What is this?”

 

“The Mysterium Xarxes.”

 

“By the Nine,” he shouted, “it’s dangerous to even touch that thing. What are you doing carrying it with you?”

 

“Excuse the hell out of me,” she snapped, dropping her bag, the tome landing on top of it and they both ignored the faint crunch it made on impact with the floor. “I only saw Mankar Camoran open a portal with it to his “Paradise” and thought it might be useful. A portal he escaped through with the damned Amulet of Kings, by the way. You know,” she continued, “I don’t see anyone else here going out and risking their necks to infiltrate a daedric cult. I don’t even want to be doing this. But I don’t have a choice, do I?” She panted, her face suffused with color and her eyes bright and luminous. 

 

Martin crossed his arms and took a deep breath in, feeling the air fill his lungs and loosen the band that gripped his chest. He stared at her for a moment longer, the silence filling the distance that sprung between the two of them, he murmured, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re right; grabbing that book was the best decision.” He bent down to retrieve it, wincing at the wetness he felt under his fingers when they brushed the soft material of her bag. “I think a couple potion phials broke.”

 

She glared at him, then turned her gaze away. “Yeah,” she agreed, still frowning.

 

He opened the Xarxes, his eyes following the daedric script laid out on the pages. “I need to study this,” he said, “but I think I can find away to open the same portal that Camoran did. It will just take some time.”

 

She nodded. She turned towards the corridor that led to the Blades’ sleeping quarters. 

 

Martin laid a hand on her shoulder. “Are you heading to bed already?”

 

She turned her head towards Martin, her lips still turned down in a moue. “I’d like to sleep in some semblance of a real bed after camping out in the woods for nearly a week, if you don’t mind. Like you said: it’s been a couple weeks. I’m tired.”

 

“Of course.” He nodded, removing his hand from her person. He watched her leave, her silent footsteps just floating to his ears as her dark figure disappeared down the hallway. He let out another sigh and returned to his seat and stared at the passageway for some time as the shadows from the torches twirled and glided along the walls, hugging the corners. He turned his attention back to the book, far more alert than he had been at the beginning of the evening. 

 

* * *

 

Felicienne made her way back to Cheydinhal in a matter of days, and two weeks there had passed with no word from Jauffre or Martin regarding the situation with Mankar Camoran and the Mysterium Xarxes. With little else to do, she spent that time with the rest of her new Dark Brothers and Sisters. She rested on top of her bed in the living quarters. 

 

“What is the matter with you?” Antoinetta burst out. “You’ve been moping about since you’ve been back. You let Vicente know that you finished your contract--which we heard about well before you got back, by the way--and then you’ve just been in here since.” Antoinetta glared, but softened her face at Felicienne’s lack of response. “Is everything alright?”

 

The younger Breton sighed. “Yes, everything’s fine. I really have just had a lot going on.”

 

The blonde raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment. “We should go out,” she said. 

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. You stay here all the time, when you’re in town, that is. There are taverns here, you know. I don’t know what all you have going on, but it’s clear you work too much. Besides,” she drawled, “I have a friend I want you to meet. He’s one of us, so you don’t worry.”

 

“He’s in the Dark Brotherhood?”

 

“Yes. A Breton, too, like us. He actually started in our Sanctuary. He’s been here a long time.”

 

Felicienne grinned. “Is this a friend?” she asked, then leered. “Or a ‘friend.’” 

 

Antoinetta’s face glowed before she sat back on her own bed and fairly simpered. “That’s really none of your business.”

 

Felicienne cackled. “Now you have to tell me. It’s not fair. You’re having this fantastic rendezvous with a mysterious man and I live in perpetual chastity.”

 

“He’s not mysterious; everyone here knows him.”

 

“He’s mysterious to me.”

 

“And it’s not serious anyway.” The blonde coughed. “Neither of us expects anything from the other.”

 

“Right,” Felicienne dragged. “You’ve your eye on someone else.” She gazed at Antoinetta out of the corner of her eye.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

Felicienne made a small ‘hmm’ sound and nodded, still grinning. 

 

“What was that about ‘perpetual chastity’?”

 

The brunette bit her lip. “It’s not like it’s on purpose,” she huffed. “It’s just...never come up.”

 

“You’re too prickly for most men. Women too, most likely.”

 

“Pardon you,” Felicienne interjected, throwing her pillow at Antoinetta’s pretty face. “I am the epitome of charm and grace.”

 

Antoinetta laughed, hitting the back of her head against the wall. She winced but kept chuckling. At Felicienne’s glare, she held her hands up. “It’s nice to see you a bit more relaxed. You were just a scared rabbit when you first arrive here.”

 

As Felicienne opened her mouth to retort, M’raaj-dar opened the door to the quarters and stuck his head inside. “Our Speaker is here, you gaggling geese. Ocheeva sent me to alert you.” He strode out after relaying his message and both women rolled their eyes. 

 

“Did I do something to him?” Felicienne asked. 

 

“Don’t mind him. He was just as surly when I arrived.”

 

“Does he get better?”

 

“Give it about a year.”

 

“Now, that’s just lovely.” Felicienne crossed her arms behind her head as Antoinetta stood up from her bed. 

 

“Felicienne, aren’t you coming?”

 

“Am I supposed to?” the brunette asked while sitting up. 

 

“Seeing as Ocheeva sent M’raaj-dar to tell both of us,” she trailed off, then sighed when she saw Felicienne was not moving. “Yes. Lucien is in charge of this Sanctuary.”

 

“Fine, fine,” the younger girl said, finally getting off of her bed and stretching. Antoinetta shook her head, and with a grin Felicienne noticed her quick pace on their way to greet Lachance. Rolling her eyes again, she trailed after the blonde woman as they made their way into the main entrance. “Looks like we won’t be going anywhere tonight,” she snickered. “Not that you’d want to now, anyway.” 

 

Antoinetta glared at her. 

 

When they arrived in the foyer, Lucien was still speaking with Ocheeva, and Felicienne took the opportunity to sidle around the edges of the room to the reading area to sit and wait. She wasn’t the one who wanted to insert herself in Lachance’s company, she thought with a small grin. As she buried her face in “Azura and the Box,” she heard Lachance and Antoinetta exchange greetings and Antoinetta’s bell-like laughter. Felicienne shook her head and continued to thumb through the novel, recalling her lessons with Haskill in Cyrodilic. Some bitterness remained that she was not able to procure any books that were written at least in Nordic. She squinted at the words, and snapped the book shut, her eyes beginning to throb and water. While it had gotten better, she still couldn’t quite bring herself to read these books for fun. Perhaps the next time she was in the Imperial City, she would visit First Edition and place a special order for books from High Rock. 

 

She sat, listening to the ambient noise around her: Lachance and Antoinetta’s low voices, the faint sound of M’raaj-dar training in the next room and each impact a frost spell of his made on one of the wooden targets, Gogron gro-Balmog’s heavy footfalls as he entered the sanctuary  from the well entrance and Telaendral’s enthusiastic greeting of him. Felicienne leant against the back of the chair, feeling it shift and creak under her slight weight while it pressed into her skin against her shoulder blades and dug in. A crawling sensation broke out over her flesh and the hair on her nape prickled. She shuddered and looked up from a fascinating spot on the stone wall and glanced towards Lachance and Antoinetta. Still in conversation, but Lachance caught her eye before she turned away, cheeks flushed, and trained her gaze back on her spot. Pins and needles pricked at her skin, and she shifted in her seat, never settling for long. She heard their conversation taper off and Lachance’s, rather curt in Felicienne’s opinion, dismissal of the older Breton. 

 

It was silent for a moment before she heard the whisper of footsteps and the creak of the other chair adjacent to hers. She turned her head to see Lachance seated across from her. 

 

“You seem to have settled in well. The time you’re here, that is,” he remarked, steepling his fingers in front of him as his elbows laid on the armrests of the chair. 

 

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded. “I have,” she stated. Her eyes darted from him to her lap to the wall and back again. She tugged on the hem of her linen shirt, feeling it catch on her shoulders when it ran out of slack. 

“Vicente tells me that you haven’t accepted another contract yet,” the Imperial continued. “Is there any particular reason why you haven’t?”

 

“No, of course not. I mean, I’ve had other obligations to see to. I was going to ask Vicente about work tomorrow. I wasn’t aware that there was already something else available.” Not a complete lie; she hadn’t known she would be expected to pick up something so soon. She shouldn’t have become as lax as she had in recent weeks regarding the Brotherhood. 

 

He regarded her from where he sat, and he saw her fidget under the weight of his observations. Her hair fell around her face from her loosened ponytail, and the candlelight flickered across her face, her skin glowing gold in the dim light. A bruise was blooming across her right cheekbone, and other, smaller, bruises dotted her collarbones and appeared on the tops of her hands and highlighted the paleness of her flesh. They varied in appearance, going from a jaundiced yellow to vibrant blue and purple. 

 

Whatever she did when she was not in Cheydinhal, she was busy. 

 

He inquired about her progress from time to time, far more than he had when it came to other recruits. Whenever he stopped by, she was either gone entirely or drifted around the sanctuary quiet and demure. Half of the time, it was as if she still wasn’t there though her presence was felt. She still moved with a nervous gait, despite her silence, each gesture filled with anxious energy. 

 

She also did her best to avoid him. He had seen her skirt the edges of the walls, dancing out of his periphery. 

 

He let a small grin flash across his features, nearly imperceptible unless one paid painfully close attention. It seemed as though their first encounters would not be forgotten so soon for Felicienne. Though she played brave, her terror had been palpable--enticing, really--even as she stared him down. If he had made any threatening move towards her, he was sure she would have given him quite the struggle. She might have even left her own marks on him, and he felt a thrill go through him at the prospect. She was easy to underestimate. 

 

However, he was her Speaker, and it was time that she began to treat him with that respect. 

 

Her voice broke into his thoughts as she spoke up, in a near-whisper, “Was there something you wished to discuss? Am I in trouble?”

 

“No, you’re not. You would know if you were.”

 

“That’s reassuring,” she said. 

 

He leaned back, drumming his fingers together. “You are from High Rock, correct?”

 

She started, but nodded to him. When he didn’t say anything else, she opened her mouth. “From Jehanna, actually.”

 

“The Western Reach?”

 

She nodded again, scooting closer to the edge of her seat. “Yes, my mother was from a tribe of Reachman. They were integrated, of course. We lived near the town-proper.”

 

“What brings a Reachman all the way to Cyrodiil?”

 

“The Night Mother wasn’t able to tell you?” she asked. Lachance raised an eyebrow of his, his gaze hardening and Felicienne cursed her big mouth. “I mean no disrespect, of course,” she stammered. “I just thought that you all would have some way of knowing. You knew I was in the Imperial City prison, I just assumed-” Lachance held a hand up before she finished her sentence. “I’m also not a Reachman,” she interjected, her hackles up. “But, yes, we lived in the Western Reach. There just wasn’t much left for me there. My family’s gone. My parents, anyway. There wasn’t really much point in me staying. I thought Cyrodiil would be a nice, cosmopolitan change. Skyrim’s still a little xenophobic and, as has been pointed out to me a few times, I’d be perceived as a Reachman. Not exactly what I’d want in that province, given the disputes that still go on in the Reach with the local Nords, despite my name.” She snorted, settling back down against her chair, the tension seeping away from her shoulders. “You’d think they’d give up. The Empire gave that land to the Nords and Bretons, and they’re not going to let it go.” She laughed. “My mother said that she came from a people who didn’t know they’d been conquered. I mean, it’s only been a few hundred years, right?” She glanced at him, narrowing her eyes, but her mouth drawn back in a slight grin. “You know, you could ask Antoinetta this; I’ve told her enough.”

 

“I am no gossip, sister.”

 

“But we are. Speaker.”

 

“Perhaps I prefer to speak to you, personally. We’ve not had much time to talk. This is the longest you’ve spent in a room with me since the night we first met.”

 

She flushed and looked down. Her hands twisted in the hem of her shirt and her knuckles turned bone-white. 

 

He leaned forward in his seat, the torchlight catching on his face. His dark eyes glittered with the flickering of the flames. “Do you fear me?”

 

“I’m not afraid of anyone,” she stated through her clenched jaw. 

 

“Is that so?” he smirked at her, watching her blush deepen and spread down her decollete, marring the discoloration the bruising there. 

 

“It is.”

 

“Perhaps you should be.” He watched her tense again, her hands stilled and her eyes trained on him. He stood and she jumped in her seat. “But you don’t fear me,” he chuckled.

 

She huffed, relaxing her posture. “No. I’m just high strung.”

 

He laughed again and the sound slid down her spine and settled in her stomach as he turned to walk down the corridor towards the living quarters. “You should speak to Vicente about work soon. I think you’ll enjoy your next contract.”

 

She nodded, watching his black-clad figure disappear down the hall, robes billowing behind him. She let out a breath and sank back against her seat and she crossed her arms, holding her hands around her waist and pressing her elbows into them, feeling the slight vibrations they created. 

 

  
  
  



	5. Scheduled for Execution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with my slow updates; I've started university again this past January, so my updating is going to be less consistent, I'm afraid. I have up to Chapter Eight written, it's really just a matter of editing what I have before I post more. To keep up with updates, or to at least hear me explain myself, give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://burningsilenceblog.tumblr.com/)  
> I update that semi-regularly and sometimes post raw segments of my chapters there to get a feel for them. Again, thank you all for your patience; your comments and kudos mean the world to me.

Felicienne stood in front of the sewer grate of the Imperial City Prison, crossed her arms in front of her, her lip curled in a sneer. After her attempts to avoid this place, it appeared that the Dark Brotherhood would be the ones to drag her back. With a deep sigh that she regretted as soon as she took it, her nose wrinkling as she inhaled the thick and damp air that wafted out of the grate, she fished for the key that Vicente had provided her before she left Cheydinhal. After she unlocked the gate, she pushed her way inside, the creak of metal against stone echoing off of the walls. Light filtered through and scattered on the floor of the, and she heard the faint drip of water as is trickled from the ceiling and crashed into the puddles that littered the ground. She pulled her hood over her head and crept through the underground system, keeping to the walls and shadow. 

 

More than once she avoided alerting the patrolling guards, melting into the air with an imperceptible shimmer of green and kept from touching anything nearby besides the ground she tiptoed on. When she arrived at the familiar tunnel she escaped through not three months prior, she let out a faint breath and waited for the Dunmer and Imperial to finish taunting each other. 

 

* * *

 

In a darkened corner of Newland’s Lodge, Antoinetta Marie sighed into her stein of ale, glaring at the table across from her and her companion. The man who sat next her, clad in plain linens and whose darker hair was gathered away from his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck, rolled his eyes and hid a small grin behind the hand he brought up to rub the tip of his nose. 

 

“For an assassin,” he murmured, “you’re terribly easy to read. What’s on your mind, sister?”

 

She groaned. “It’s nothing. I don’t know what my problem is.”

 

The man snorted before he gestured to the publican for another ale. “Right, you’ve been acting this way for a few weeks now. You used to be fun to drink with. The last few times I’ve come in from Anvil you’ve been nothing but sullen.” He turned to thank a Dunmer woman after she set his drink down in front of him, and tipped her a few extra septims, nodding to her. 

 

“Forgive me for the lack of entertainment I provide,” she muttered, watching the exchange. “I’ve been distracted lately.”

 

“By Lucien?” He laughed when her gaze shot back towards him and colour blossomed over her cheeks. “Come now. You can’t tell me you thought you were being subtle. Last time I visited your Sanctuary with Lucien and the rest of the Black Hand, your mooning was quite apparent.” Her companion took a long breath in and steepled his fingers in front of him, resting his elbows on the table. “He doesn’t feel the same way, you know,” he told her.

 

“And what way is that, Mathieu?” she asked, her fingers clenched around the pewter mug she held. “Besides, that was almost eight months ago.”

 

The man, Mathieu, shrugged his shoulders and took a long sip of his ale. Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed and set the drink down and leaned back. Fixing her with his gaze, he shook his head. “He doesn’t love you. I don’t think him capable of it. Not the way you want him to, anyway.”

 

Biting her lip, she looked away. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Why? Because you two fucked a couple times?” At her sharp look, he ducked his head away from her. “I’m sorry, sister. That was crass.”

 

She nodded, but her eyes softened. She reached out and covered his free hand with hers. “I heard about Maria’s disappearance. I know you two became close.”

 

His eyes glistened for a moment before he dragged his hand away and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, these things happen. Occupational hazard, and all that. She serves Sithis in the Void.”

 

Antoinetta nodded again. “I wanted you to meet someone new, actually,” she confessed. “That new member in Cheydinhal that I was telling you about. She reminds me of you, really.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, she’s quite sullen and moody most of the time.”

 

“Ha. Ha.” Glancing around, he mocked, “so where is this new family member?”

 

Antoinetta let out another huff. “She’s actually out on another contract. In the Imperial City Prison.”

 

Mathieu exhaled through pursed lips. “That’s something, isn’t it? She’s new and they sent her there? They trying to kill her?”

 

The woman scoffed. “Absolutely not. Apparently, according to both Ocheeva and Vicente, Lucien thinks she can handle it. That she has potential.” She slumped in her seat. “He’s visited quite frequently lately. Ever since she arrived. He’s even staying until she gets back from the City.”

 

Mathieu laughed. “How sweet. He’s checking up on her. Making sure she’s settling in alright? It’s not like him to coddle newcomers.”

 

“He’s not.”

 

“Right. You were just complaining a couple weeks ago about how many questions he asked Ocheeva about her. She must be pretty.”

 

“Oh, shut up, you.” Antoinetta stared at her hands. “She is. Pretty, I mean.”

 

Her companion let out a long breath. “Come now, I was joking.” Rolling his eyes, he stretched an arm out and patted Antoinetta on the back. “I’ve known Lucien a long time; I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

 

She nodded, her eyes still trained on her hands. “I know.”

 

Antoinetta let out a laugh, her voice catching a bit. “He must think she’s really talented to have her sent on that contract.”

 

“I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” He scooted a bit closer to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Besides,” he murmured, “you’re plenty talented yourself.”

 

Her lips curled into a soft smile and she leaned into him, sealing the space between their bodies. 

 

* * *

 

Dreth, like Vicente said, had been an easy kill. At least, once Felicienne had gotten to him, and she would have been dishonest if she did not acknowledge it had almost been enjoyable, his taunts and leering still fresh in her mind from Last Seed. She didn’t even have to let him out of his cell with the key she swiped from the side table. At first, he’d greeted her with a confused grin on his face and pleaded with her to let him out. When she failed to capitulate, the familiar sneer spread across his face as he pressed himself against the bars of his cell and tilted his hips forward towards her. “If you’re not here to release me, why don’t you make yourself more useful, harlot?” he’d told her. 

 

She grasped her dagger in her fist as he continued to murmur obscenities to her and she swallowed down the burn of acid that clawed its way up her throat. As he thrust against the bars, so did she. Her dagger slid between his ribs and warmth burst across her knuckles and dripped down against her boots. The elf’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over, collapsing when she pulled the blade free. She stood still for a moment, staring at Dreth’s limp body contorted on the ground, then took a half-step back. Footsteps above her began to grow louder, and she ducked back into her old cell and through the tunnel she arrived in. She crept along the winding corridors and hallways, pausing every so often to avoid the guards again, sucking in her breath when torchlight neared her. 

 

When she finally burst into fresh air outside the sewer grate, she fell onto her knees, dark hair spilling out from her hood and she retched though nothing came up. She gagged and coughed, with only saliva spilling from her open mouth and trailing down her chin. She rolled back on her heels and fell backward and looked up at the grey sky. The stars began to glitter in the failing light of Magnus. Masser still had yet to rise over the Valus Mountains and Felicienne took in deep breaths that filled her abdomen and came out in shudders. She waited for her stomach to stop twisting as the sky turned dark and velvet, and crossed her arms over her face. She dragged a sleeve over her mouth, wiping the moisture that remained there. The chill of the damp grass burned into her back and the pressure behind her eyes stung. 

 

After some time, she turned to her side and sat up on her haunches. Rising to her feet, she began the long walk to Cheydinhal. She wouldn’t bother trying to hitch a ride with a merchant caravan this time; it was already too late and she needed the time. 

 

* * *

 

A couple days later found Felicienne reentering Cheydinhal, making her way through the center of town, the bottom of her linen skirt skimming the cobblestone walkways. She meandered along the streets and glanced around at the different buildings that dotted the avenues, and the sounds of the townsfolk buzzed around her head, filling her ears with cotton by the time she reached the abandoned house by the eastern wall. She turned her head from side to side, and when she saw she was as alone as she would be, she cracked the door and slid inside the musty abode. 

 

Her fingers ran across the now-familiar moss-covered stones that comprised the walls when she walked through the Black Door and arrived back home. It was still late in the afternoon, so the sight of several other family members conversing and lounging around with one another was not an unusual greeting. She nodded her head towards Ocheeva and Teinaava, and ducked passed M’raaj-dar on her way to Vicente’s chambers. 

 

She knocked on the thick doors and pushed them open when Vicente allowed her entrance. She startled when she saw he was speaking with Lachance and began to step back when the Speaker told her to stop and come back inside, that he was finished with what he needed to say to Vicente. 

 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt; I was just coming to let you know I’ve fulfilled my contract. Dreth is dead,” she murmured, watching the two men. Lachance nodded and swept passed her, the fabric from his robe brushing her arm, causing her skin to prickle. That same metallic and leather scent wafted around her, tickling her nose. When he was out of sight, Felicienne turned back towards Vicente with her eyebrow raised. “Did I do something?”

 

The vampire laughed. “Goodness, no. We were actually discussing what your next contract would be, should you fulfill Dreth’s. Which you have. You have far exceeded my expectations.” His smile dropped a bit, and he motioned for her to come closer. “If I’m to be perfectly honest with you, I was not expecting you to pull this one off as seamlessly as you did, but here we are! You were undetectable.”

 

She looked down, away from his gleaming eyes and fangs, and scuffed her shoes on the flooring. “I’ve had a lot of practise with the school of Illusion,” she bit her lip and wrung her hands together. 

 

“It has served you well! You’ve earned both you pay, and your bonus. However,” Vicente stated, his tone becoming less light, “there is another contract waiting for you. A special contract, actually. I was hesitant to offer it to you, truth be told, but Lucien seems quite sure of your capabilities, and, frankly, I am too.” 

 

“Special contract?”

 

“Yes, it seems there is a man, Francois Motierre, who has upset some rather...unsavory folks. He’s borrowed some money and didn’t pay. Now he wants us to fake his death.”

 

Felicienne’s brows both shot up and her eyes widened. “Fake? Do we do that?”

 

“Generally speaking, no. The Dark Brotherhood is not in the business of faking deaths, no matter the amount of gold. Sithis requires a life.” Vicente shrugged. “Francois arranged to give us his mother in exchange for his. We accepted.” He grinned at the girl, chuckling when she blanched. 

 

“Do I have to-”

 

“No. Lucien has already taken care of that little detail.”

 

Felicienne nodded and mumbled something that sounded like “Of course he did.”

 

Vicente handed her a dagger that he said was coated with languorwine and told her that she would have to make sure the enforcer that the lenders sent over was present when she made the incapacitating blow, and to leave the enforcer alive so he could report back that Motierre was dead.  “Motierre must remain alive,” he stressed. “And time is of the essence; the sooner you leave, the better. Make us proud,” he said, squeezing her thin shoulder. She shivered under his frigid touch and saw that his gaze landed below her jawline. She swallowed and watched his eyes track the movement. His lids shut and he shook his head, and backed away from her, giving her a toothy smile. 

 

Her lips twitched back and she walked out of his rooms, perhaps faster than strictly necessary.  

 

She would rest tonight, then head out tomorrow. 

 

Felicienne sat down at the dining table in the living quarters next to Antoinetta and Telaendril, who appeared to be home for once. After exchanging greetings, Felicienne grabbed an apple from a serving bowl. 

 

“So, sweet sister,” Telaendril started, “I heard you’re getting a special contract?”

 

Felicienne turned to look at the Wood Elf, her eyes wide. “How on Nirn did you know that? I just found out myself!”

 

Antoinetta raised her hand. “I overheard Lucien and Vicente speaking earlier today before you got back.”

 

“Good grief, woman,” Felicienne chided. “I can’t imagine Lachance being willing to let me eavesdrop on his conversations.”

 

Antoinetta and Telaendril both tittered, the Bosmer shaking her head. “I don’t think he cares for it, but I don’t think anyone could keep Antoinetta Marie away from gossip.”

 

Antoinetta sniffed. “I provide a valuable service to this Sanctuary. How else are any of you to stay up to date on the comings and goings of the Dark Brotherhood. At least, where we’re concerned.”

 

The younger Breton giggled and took a bite out of her apple, feeling the juice slide down her throat and leaving her lips covered in its sap. She chewed, taking her time as she watched the other two women. A dark stain peeked out from behind the high neck of Antoinetta’s armour. Swallowing her bite, she choked out, “By the gods, Antoinetta, is that a hickey?” She erupted into a laughing fit, still choking on the bite of apple, and coughed into her palm. “That’s a hickey! Did you meet up with your mystery man while I was away? I’m hurt; I thought I would get to meet him.”

 

Antoinetta threw a piece of bread at the giggling girl and glared at Telaendril who appeared to be smothering the evidence of her own mirth. 

 

“I want details!” Felicienne crowed. “Perpetual chastity, remember? I have to live vicariously through someone! And I’m afraid to ask Telaendril, because, well, I’m not sure how she does it with Gogron.” She turned to the Bosmer and mock-whispered, “I admire you, to be honest.” Turning back towards the other Breton, she beamed, “How was he? Was it good? Is it really the same person you wanted to see the last time I was here?”

 

“Oh, stop it,” Antoinetta snapped to Felicienne as the younger woman bounced in her seat. 

 

Stifling more chuckles that tried to burst forth, the brunette took another bite of apple, watching the somewhat older woman out of the corner of her eye. “I bet it was great,” Felicienne told Telaendril. “That’s why she’s not saying anything.” 

 

Telaendril nodded, smirking when she saw Antoinetta’s flush deepen, along with the scowl blooming across the blonde’s face. 

 

“This is not appropriate for when our Speaker is here,”  Antoinetta scolded. Telaendril snorted and Felicienne erupted into a fresh round of giggles. 

 

The blonde woman huffed and got up from the table, and exited the quarters altogether. 

 

Felicienne frowned. “Oh, I didn’t mean to upset her. I was only teasing.”

 

“Don’t worry about Antoinetta,” Telaendril assured. “She’s just being sensitive. If the situation were reversed, she’d have no problem taunting you without mercy.”

 

“She cares a lot about what Lachance thinks of her, doesn’t she?”

 

Telaendril nodded. “I suppose she thinks she’s being terribly subtle, but she’s as obvious as an Orc-berserker.”

 

Felicienne shrugged, and stared at the half-eaten apple on her plate, watching the play of candlelight bounce off of its wet surface. 

 

* * *

 

The Breton was back in the reading nook in the main hallway of the sanctuary, flipping through her copy of “Azura and the Box.” 

 

“Taking your time travelling to Chorrol?”

 

She jumped and dropped her book. Heart pounding in her chest, she turned to her left where Lachance stood near her. She felt her cheeks burn and she chewed on her bottom lip. She looked up at the Speaker and sighed. “I planned on leaving tomorrow,” she paused, rubbing her hand over her face. “Vicente told me that he’s heard that Motierre’s lenders are sending someone within the next few days. If I get there by early Turdas, it should give me enough time.” When Lachance remained silent, Felicienne continued, “And I thought I would get some rest before heading out again. After all, a tired assassin is a careless assassin. Wouldn’t want to accidentally kill Motierre.” She laughed, forcing the sound passed her throat. She jerked when she felt his hand grip her shoulder, the fingers curling around the thin bones there. 

 

“It was a joke,” she muttered, steeling her spine when she felt his fingers dig deeper in her flesh.

 

“Hilarious.” Lucien relaxed his hold and ran his fingers over the blossoming bruises spreading over the concealed skin. “You sound like you have everything in hand.”

 

“Do I? How keen.”

 

“It is awfully late for a ‘tired assassin.’” 

 

“Can’t sleep.” She pulled her legs up and swung them over the arm of her chair. “I can probably sleep if I catch a ride with a merchant or trader. Sometimes the Khajiit caravans pass through the Imperial City.” The shoulder that the Imperial clasped shrugged, the movement slight, and he pulled his hand away before she tilted her head back. “I should buy a horse one day.” 

 

He took a seat near her. “You should go get some rest while you can. You have a long few days ahead of you.” 

 

Felicienne nodded, keeping her eyes trained on the floor, where it met the wall. “I will. I just need to,” she took a deep breath, “relax.” 

 

Lachance just hummed in response, and she felt the weight of his eyes on her. She continued to look at the ground, and she shivered.  

 

“How long have you been with the Dark Brotherhood?” she queried. “I’ve been here for a couple months, and,” she shrugged, “I don’t know anything about you. Besides, you’ve broken into my room twice now; I think you can owe me a little bit of information.” She paused and bit her lip. “I mean, it’s only fair.”

 

He smirked, then leaned back against the chair he sat in. He folded his arms in front of him and exhaled, the force of which rustled the material of his shirt, which Felicienne observed from the corner of her eyes. 

 

“I joined about,” he tilted his head up, and she saw the way he worried the corner of his mouth with his tongue while he stared at some point on the ceiling, “I’d say over twenty-five years ago. In High Rock. Wayrest. After the War of Betony.” He saw her eyebrows perk up. “But I spent quite some time in Skyrim before coming back to Cyrodiil.” 

 

She nodded before she flung her gaze back towards the ground. She picked at the chapped skin on her lips with her teeth, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Opening her reddened lips she blurted, “Who did you kill to get in?”

 

“I’ve already answered your question. If you want another, you’ll have to answer one of mine,” he stated. His posture changed and he leaned forward towards her, and she drew her legs back up to her seat and hugged her knees under her chin. “Who did you kill? The Night Mother couldn’t see you, but she still sensed a death. How did you conceal that?”

 

“That’s two questions.”

 

His dark brow rose and his lips pursed. 

 

She cleared her throat. “It was an Imperial. I didn’t know him. His name was Hirrus Clutumnus.” Her blue eyes melted and the fire gleamed off of the icy pools. “He asked me to kill him, said he wanted to avoid Sheogorath’s wrath,” her voice hitched and Lachance tilted his head towards her further, “and the Hill of Suicides. So I pushed him off of a ledge, near the palace. The guard laughed and said that that happened all the time.” She wrung her hands together, in front of her shins, and felt trails of salt drip down her cheeks. She rushed to wipe them away with her sleeves. “He left me a payment,” she dug her free hand into her pocket, “this ring,” she stated, holding it out to the Speaker. 

 

“It’s a nice ring. A fitting payment for the favor you did for him.”

 

“I hate wearing it,” she snapped. “I can’t wear it.” She deflated and closed her eyes for a moment. Evening her breath, she whispered, “I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

 

“So, your first murder was a contract. No wonder the Night Mother wanted us to seek you out. Do not weep; you’ve already accepted your place within our family. Where else did you have to go?”

 

She sniffled, “Nowhere.”

 

“You will not have that problem with us. We cherish our family members.”

 

And she had to swallow down another bout of bile that tried to claw its way to her mouth as she choked on the gravel that settled in her throat. Instead, she nodded. 

 

She felt a rough hand cup her chin and opened her eyes, blinking as Lachance’s face came into full view. The scowl that was there ruffled her nape and she felt the clinging of her clothing to her skin. 

“Are you able to handle the Motierre contract?”

 

She bounced her head up and down, her skull knocking with the force of it. His grip tightened on her jaw and she let out a soft cry, giving into the stream she kept locked behind her eyelids. “I can!” she yelped. 

 

“I do not wish for my faith in you to be displaced. You’ve done well for yourself in your time here.” He slackened his knuckles and ran his fingers over the reddened flesh. “I do wish to see you continue to flourish here.” He rubbed the back of his hand across her cheek before drawing it away and standing up. “You should get some rest. You have a long day ahead of you.”

 

She scurried, nearly knocking her chair over behind her, and darted out of the room towards her bed, her heart flapping its wings against the ribs that caged it. 

 

She felt his eyes on her even after she wrestled herself to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

  
  



	6. My Brother's Keeper

Francois Motierre caused no small number of problems for Felicienne the moment she entered his home in Chorrol. Glaring at his still form on the stone platform in the Undercroft, she rubbed the healing wound on her arm from the enforcer’s dagger that she received the night prior. She thumbed the vial of antidote she carried in in pocket, rubbing her thumb along the cork that safeguarded the liquid there as she continued to stare. With a sigh, she pulled it out and unplugged the stopper. She reached for his hair and grasped it, tilting his head up and causing his mouth to fall open, and poured the potion down his throat. 

 

The man before her spluttered and coughed, wrenching his head away from her. He sat up, cold sweat beading on his forehead and looked up at Felicienne.

 

“You came back!”

 

“I didn’t really have much of a choice, now did I?” she scowled at him, arms crossed in front of her. “Now come on, we have to get going.”

 

She turned to leave, but a hand on her elbow stopped her. She turned and narrowed her eyes at Francois. “What is it now?”

 

“I should have told you this from the beginning, but there wasn’t much time! You see, the Undercroft is, well, it’s cursed.”

 

“Goddamn it, I thought Antoinetta was making that up!”

 

“My ancestors will see my ‘resurrection,’” he held his hands up, “as a desecration of their tomb. They, they might attack us. But please, you have to get me out safely,” he pleaded.

 

“By the Nine,” she muttered, “this is not worth whatever payment I’m supposed to get.” She snapped her head back towards Motierre. “Fine. Not like I have a choice in this,” she told him, running her fingers along the line of her jaw. “Come on, let’s go,” she grumbled, motioning for him to follow. She saw the blood drain from Motierre’s already pale face as he stared at some point behind her. Then, she heard the shuffle and scrape of stone against stone.

 

“Oh my, Aunt Margaret,” he laughed, the sound thin and airy. “You are rather looking worse for wear, aren’t you?”

 

“Perfect,” she said under her breath, turning around just in time to see the animated corpse of Motierre’s ‘Aunt Margaret.’ She summoned a fireball and flung it towards the creature, exploding it on impact. “I am not dealing with this,” Felicienne griped. She closed her eyes and her hands glowed an eerie red as she recited a small summoning incantation. Motierre gasped when a horrid animated stitching of flesh materialised in front of him.

 

“What in Mara’s name is that?”

 

“Relmyna calls them Flesh Atronachs. She’s got this thing for discovering new elements, and apparently Flesh is one of them, so Sheogorath brought her to one of his realms after she was expelled from the Mages’ Guild so she could continue her research, and you know, that’s not really important right now.” She turned to the atronach and asked, “Could you go and clear out any of the other zombies that might have a problem with Motierre and I leaving here?” Looking back to Motierre, she let out a small laugh. “I hate zombies.”

 

Motierre nodded, keeping his eyes on the atronach as it strode out of the chamber the two Bretons stood in. The sounds of fighting echoed through the Undercroft and Felicienne wondered why no one from the chapel had come down to check on the racket they were surely making. Felicienne flinched as she listened to the wet thumps that resonated from the nearby room. 

 

“So,” Motierre ventured, “have you been in this line of work very long?”

 

“Can you just not talk until we’re at The Grey Mare?”

Motierre nodded and glanced around their surroundings, shuffling his feet. When the area fell silent, Felicienne peeked her head around the corner and found her atronach standing, facing the wall next to three other bodies that had since collapsed. 

 

She waved to Motierre and he began to follow her. The atronach stumbled and then dissipated, and Felicienne let out a sigh. “I didn’t want to deal with anyone noticing that.” Motierre let out a brittle chuckle and fell into step behind the other Breton. It was nearing two in the morning, so the streets of Chorrol were sparse as they made their way to the inn. 

 

When they hobbled into The Grey Mare, Motierre shook Felicienne’s hand with a grin on his face. “Thank you, thank you so much! I can arrange for safe passage out of Cyrodiil from here. Lucien said you were good; I’m glad my trust was not misplaced.”

 

“Please don’t thank me. Let’s just put this behind us. Maybe you don’t borrow money anymore.”

 

“Well,” he exhaled, holding his smile, “now we can put this ugly business behind us and never see each other again.”

 

Felicienne rolled her eyes and huffed, and took a seat at the bar away from Motierre where she ordered a bottle of ale and, not bothering with a mug, uncorked the bottle and took a deep swig, cringing. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Welcome back,” Telaendril said when Felicienne re-entered the sanctuary a few days later. The Breton stopped, abrupt, and stared for a moment at the Bosmer. 

 

“Where’s Antoinetta?” she asked.

 

The elf laughed, “She’s in town. Vicente’s in his chambers, if you want to report back to him.”

 

The girl blushed and nodded, hurrying down the hallway. When she arrived in Vicente’s living quarters, she saw Ocheeva speaking with the vampire, and hovered outside the door. They fell silent, and Vicente motioned for Felicienne to enter. Ocheeva moved to leave, but stopped to pat Felicienne on the back before she exited. 

 

“We’ve received news of your success,” Vicente let her know. “Lucien was particularly pleased, and I am happy to inform you that along with your payment, as well as the bonus that you so rightfully earned, you also advanced in rank. You are now an Eliminator, and can now access the well entrance to the Sanctuary.”

 

“We have a well entrance?”

 

“Yes, it’s the ladder in the main alcove. Surely you’ve seen it.”

 

She shrugged. “I guess that’ll make it easier to get in and out without running the risk of being seen. Although,” she pursed her lips, “I’m pretty sure Cheydinhal knows that there’s something not-quite-right about this house. We could probably just put a sign on the door and no one would do anything.”

 

“We keep the count encouraged from doing anything unwise.”

She lifted her brows and her eyes grew round. “I see.”

 

“Be that as it may, I am sad to say,” Vicente continued, “our work together is complete. You’ll be receiving contracts through Ocheeva from now on.” He smiled at her, and shook her hand. “I’ll still be available for any additional help you might need, of course.” He patted his vest a couple of times. “And, before I forget, here’s your bonus.” The vampire pulled out a jeweled copper amulet suspended on a copper chain. “It’s called Cruelty’s Heart. It’s enchanted. Lucien dropped it off for you, actually.”

 

He dropped the amulet in Felicienne’s hand and she gazed at it. “How lovely.”

 

Vicente hummed in agreement. “Yes, Lucien seemed to think this would be more appropriate for you.”

 

She nodded as she twirled the pendant around her fingers, feeling the thrum of the magic the item had been augmented with. She slipped it into her pocket, its weight heavy against her thigh. “More appropriate?” she asked, belatedly. 

“Ah yes, there was another item originally meant for the Motierre contract. Lucien decided otherwise, it seems.”

 

She turned to leave, unsure of what else to say, and Vicente laid a cold, thin hand on her shoulder. 

 

“We talked briefly before, you and I, regarding my condition and, as you have proven yourself to be a valuable asset to this Sanctuary, I would like to offer you the opportunity to share in my gift.”

 

“Your gift?” she asked. Her eyes widened and she let out an exclamation, then furrowed her eyebrows and murmured a soft ‘oh.’ “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

 

“You do not have to decide right now,” he laughed. “Eternal life is a weighty decision, and not one you should make lightly. The offer is always open, should you reconsider.”

 

Her eyes dropped, and she swallowed, the sound echoed in her ears. “Eternal life, right. It is certainly something to think about.” She worried her lip and resumed her exit, her footfalls patted along the grey hall and filled the corridor, drowning out the thundering in her ears. 

* * *

 

 

She lay on her bed and held the amulet over her, watching the flickering light of the torches bounce off of the metallic surface. The jewels inlaid within the setting glistered, and she placed the pendant on her forehead, its coolness seeping between her brows and she let out a deep sigh. Her eyes were falling shut just as she heard someone else enter the room.

 

“What’s that?” Antoinetta’s voice queried.

 

Felicienne’s eyes drifted open and she looked towards her left, and saw her blonde friend seated on her own bed. Taking the necklace from her forehead, she held it out to Antoinetta. “It’s my bonus, apparently.”

 

Antoinetta picked it up and examined the jewelry. “It’s beautiful, and it feels enchanted.” She handed it back. “So, the Motierre contract went well, then?”

 

“It did. Zombies got involved, but, other than that it went fine.”

 

“I told you that Undercroft was cursed.”

 

Felicienne turned to her side and stuck her tongue out. “I know that now.”

 

“Are you going to be sticking around a bit more now?”

 

“I think so. I don’t have any urgent message telling me I need to go somewhere yet. And I don’t think Ocheeva has anything for me yet.”

 

“Urgent message?”

 

“Yeah,” she laughed. “It’s part of the reason I was pardoned before. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some time.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

 

Felicienne continued to look at her friend, at the way the light caught her hair, the green of her eyes, her peaches-and-cream complexion, and brought her knees towards her chest. “Are you upset with me about something?”

 

The woman started. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

 

“I don’t know. I think I’m just in a mood.”

 

“But why? You should be happy. You fulfilled your contract, earned your bonus, and received a promotion. I’m not even an Eliminator yet. And it sounds like you have a bit more free time.”

 

“You’ve been here longer than me, though.”

 

“Longevity doesn’t really have anything to do with it; it’s how you get things done that’s important,” Antoinetta informed her. 

 

“You work just as much as I do. More, I think.”

 

“I told you before, Lucien Lachance knows talent when he sees it,” the blonde stated. “He wouldn’t have given you the Motierre contract otherwise. I overheard Vicente and Ocheeva-”

 

“You listen in a lot to them, don’t you?” Felicienne interjected.

 

“As I was saying,” Antoinetta began again, scowling at the younger woman, “I overhead Vicente and Ocheeva speaking, while you were gone, and Vicente seems to be under the impression that Lucien is...fast-tracking you. You know, giving you lucrative, and delicate, contracts. I mean,” she laughed, “that one in the Imperial Prison was incredibly dangerous. Sending a newer recruit there?” She shook her head. 

 

Felicienne bit her lip and ran her fingers through her hair, tangling on the knotted strands. “Oh,” was all she could say. “I don’t know why,” she eventually mused. “When we first met, he didn’t seem all that thrilled with me.”

 

The two women fell silent for some time, the sanctuary silent for the moment with Telaendril out, doing whatever it was that she did between contracts and her time in Cheydinhal, and Gogron and M’raaj-dar out on contracts. Felicienne figured that Lachance must have taken his leave not long after she left for Chorrol. 

 

“You know what,” the blonde broke the silence, “if you’re going to be home for a bit, we should get that drink I was talking about. My friend is still in town, too, so you can meet him. You two have a lot in common.”

 

Felicienne laughed. “Is this your special friend, from last week?” she asked as she wiggled her eyebrows. 

 

“It’s not like that.” Antoinetta sighed. She took her pillow from her bed and lobbed it at Felicienne. It hit with a dull thud and a yelp coming from the girl.

 

“I’m keeping this,” the brunette declared, holding up the offending pillow. 

 

* * *

 

 

Antoinetta let out a low whistle at the green silk garments that Felicienne wore when she entered Newlands Lodge the following evening. “You clean up nice,” she told her after the girl made her way to her and Mathieu’s table. “And you’re wearing your new bauble,” she grinned at the girl. 

 

“I just wanted to wear something not meant for traveling,” she mumbled, tugging on the hem of her blouse.

 

“You brushed your hair, too,” Antoinetta teased, eyeing the long wind-braids the girl wrangled her hair in to.

 

“Oh, shut up. I brush my hair. Occasionally. When I don’t have to travel everywhere,” she groused, flicking Antoinetta’s arm. 

 

The blonde just laughed at her and pulled her closer to the table. She gestured between Felicienne and Mathieu, introducing one to the other. Mathieu held his hand out to grasp the smaller Breton’s. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Antoinetta has told me quite a bit about you.”

 

“Funny, she’s been rather tight-lipped about you,” Felicienne pointedly stated, looking to Antoinetta. 

 

“I didn’t want to spoil the surprise,” the blonde remarked. 

 

Felicienne rolled her eyes, but took a seat anyway, across from Antoinetta and Mathieu. They ordered their drinks and, after they received them, began speaking amongst themselves. 

 

“I understand that Lucien recruited you somewhat recently?” Mathieu inquired, brushing his long ponytail behind his shoulder from where it fell earlier. 

 

The brunette nodded, before sipping her ale. Swallowing, she clarified, “It was back at the end of Heartfire, I believe.” She set her stein down, and waved her hand in the air. “Some random Imperial breaks into my room in the dead of night, while I’m sleeping, in a foreign city, tells me the Night Mother sent him.” She looked at Mathieu and stated, “Now, that woke me up.”

 

He chuckled and nodded. “Lucien recruited me, as well.” He stopped and took a deep breath and exhaled before he spoke again. “I was aiming to join the Dark Brotherhood. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.”

 

“So he just collect strays?” she asked and winced after she said it. “I mean, I didn’t have anywhere else either. Not really.”

 

Mathieu just laughed and shook his head. “It seems like it, doesn’t it?” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes and he opened his mouth to say, “You said ‘foreign city?’ Where are you from?”

 

“High Rock, I’ve really only recently resided in Cyrodiil.”

 

“Me too. I mean, I’m from High Rock as well. I’ve lived in Cyrodiil a great deal longer though.”

 

When he had moved closer to Felicienne, she noticed he was quite a bit younger than she had thought he was. He appeared about the same age as either she or Antoinetta, but Antoinetta said he had been a member of the Dark Brotherhood for quite some time. Years, according to her.  He had typical Breton features: fair skin, high cheekbones, aquiline nose, a fine brow, and a somewhat prominent mouth. She could understand why Antoinetta might be dallying with him. She gave him a small smile that he returned. 

 

“What part of High Rock are you from?”

 

“Wayrest.”

 

Felicienne let out a gasp and clapped her hands. “Oh, my father’s family is from Wayrest! Did you know anyone with the last name Sauveterre?”

 

Antoinetta fidgeted in her seat and took a long draught of her beverage. Her eyes flickered between Mathieu and Felicienne. 

 

“I was young when I left, but I think there was an alchemy shopkeep with that last name.”

 

“Might have been a cousin; my father’s side had a lot of people in the Guild and I think he had an aunt or uncle who was an alchemist in that area.” She shrugged. “Say, Antoinetta,” she began, turning to look at the other woman, “you’ve never actually told me where you’re from!”

 

The blonde turned her face away, appearing to look at the entrance. “I moved around quite a bit as a girl, but I am actually from Cyrodiil. I was born in Chorrol.”

 

“Lucky,” Felicienne murmured. “It’s a lot more stable here, politically, I mean. At least, it was,” she groaned. 

 

At that, Antoinetta let out a laugh and replied, “That’s for sure. Can’t say I know what to expect now.”

 

Felicienne nodded in agreement and took another swig. Mathieu and Antoinetta continued speaking to one another, and Felicienne let her mind drift over the events of the last couple days as she looked over her surroundings. The corner they sat in was as secluded as a public setting could get, shrouded with the exception of the candles that decorated the table and cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceilings, and she watched the other patrons interacting with one another. She noted the large number of Dunmer in the establishment as well as the lack of Imperial guards. No wonder Antoinetta and Mathieu frequented this inn, she thought with a smirk. It probably wasn’t an establishment that asked too many questions about renting a room, either. She glanced back to the other two Bretons and caught Mathieu’s eye and snapped her head back towards the table, inspecting the wood grain of the surface and the rings of moisture left over from their flagons. She felt a shiver crawl up her spine and lifted her head to scan the the room, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Just the start of a couple drunken spats between drinking friends. The prickle behind her neck stayed with her the entire evening and she found herself unable to sit still as her necklace laid heavy on her breastbone. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Ocheeva approached Felicienne about a new contract in the Imperial City regarding an elf named Faelian, and invited the Breton to sit down with her in her office. The first moments passed in relative silence and Felicienne thumbed the pendant resting around her neck. The Argonian cleared her throat and took a deep breath. 

 

“I know we haven’t really gotten much time to know each other, but I want you to know that I have been following your progress closely. Both Vicente and Lucien speak very highly of you and I truly look forward to working together with you.”

 

Felicienne let out a laugh as her face grew hot. “That’s really not necessary, but, thank you. That means a lot to me. I know I haven’t been around as much as I probably should have been, but-”

 

“Oh that’s quite alright. Antoinetta told me you have quite a bit of business out of town.”

 

“Wow,” Felicienne tittered, glancing down to the side of the room, “Antoinetta talks a lot, doesn’t she?”

“She does tend to run her mouth sometimes,” Ocheeva agreed with a chuckle. “But I think she only has the best interests of this Sanctuary at heart.”

 

“I know.” Felicienne smiled, dropping the necklace against her and it settled with a thunk as it landed against the cloth of her shirt. “I do, too. I’ve been thinking a lot, lately and...I know I probably haven’t shown this that much but,” she sucked in a deep breath, feeling it fill out in her chest and released it, “I have a place somewhere, because of you all.”

 

“We look after our own. The Night Mother smiles on her most trusted daughters,” Ocheeva enthused. “This life can be an adjustment for those who hadn’t sought it out. Teinaava and I were born for it, back in Black Marsh. You were not so fortunate. Lucien told me a bit about the circumstances under which he met you.”

 

Felicienne threw up her hands and huffed and looked off to the side. “I didn’t know I was such an interesting topic around here.”

 

“Oh, you have to understand, your advancement with us has been quite impressive. We haven’t seen anything like it in years. The skill you’ve shown is, quite frankly, remarkable.”

 

“I’m a quick study, what can I say,” she mumbled. 

 

“It’s more than that,” Ocheeva stated. “Vicente and I have seen it, and The Black Hand and Lucien have seen it, as well.”

 

“Right, well, thank you, Ocheeva,” Felicienne said. She stood up from the table and apologized for her abruptness before sweeping out of the room. 

 

Ocheeva sat back in her chair and laughed under her breath, shaking her head. She pulled out a letter she received earlier and began to read it. 

* * *

 

Being seated back in the dining area of the living room gave Felicienne the opportunity to ruminate over the fact that she had not heard from Martin or Jauffre yet. She had made a point to stay close to Cheydinhal so that a courier would have a more successful chance of finding her, but now with her becoming more active in the Dark Brotherhood, she may have to start traveling again. On top of that, she heard rumors in town of other Oblivion Gates opening all over Cyrodiil, which would place an additional burden on any traveling she needed to do; both for Martin and the Dark Brotherhood. She thought about New Sheoth and the Isles and regretted not staying there.

 

Although, it wasn’t like she knew anything about being a Daedric Prince, and The Shivering Isles were safe enough, for now. Haskill would oversee the Aureal and Mazken, even though both duchies sat vacant, and Jyggalag was still roaming the waters of Oblivion, if he even wanted to attack again at all. One Daedric Prince at a time, please. 

 

Her musings were interrupted Teinaava taking a seat next to her and reaching for a small loaf of bread. Telaendril had made this batch, so they were disappearing with surprising speed. Felicienne flashed the Argonian a quick smile before bringing her hand up to her mouth and worrying the cuticles with her teeth. 

 

Teinaava, instead of tucking into his small meal, turned to the Breton and congratulated her on her promotion; he had heard about it from Ocheeva. 

 

Felicienne thanked him, muffled by her digits, then pulled them away. “Teinaava,” she began, the volume of her voice lilting, “Ocheeva said something, when we were speaking earlier, that I wondered about, and I suppose I just want to ask if you’d maybe shed some light on it for me?”

“I will answer what I can,” he conceded while he stared after her. 

 

“Ocheeva said that you and she were born to this, to the Dark Brotherhood, I think. What does that mean?”

 

“Ah, she and I are egg-mates. Back in Argonia, we were born under the sign of The Shadow,” he informed the girl. He set his bread down on a plate in front of him and turned his body and head completely to Felicienne. “In Black Marsh, Argonians born under The Shadow are raised as Shadowscales by the Dark Brotherhood. Lucien raised Ocheeva and I as his own, and then we went back to Black Marsh to serve as assassins. Now, we are here.”

 

“So Lachance raised you both?” she asked, and then let out a giggle and clamped her hands over her mouth.

 

“Why do you laugh?”

 

“I don’t mean to,” she apologized. “I’m just imagining Lachance raising children. It’s unexpected,” she said as she folded her arms and trying to stifle further laughter that bubbled up from her chest. 

 

Teinaava rolled his slitted eyes and returned to his meal. “You aren’t so moon-eyed about Lucien as Antoinetta is, especially for as much of an interest as he has taken in you,” he remarked, glancing back at her. 

 

She spluttered, “Why should I be?”

 

“I mean no insult. It is respectable.”

 

“And Antoinetta is not ‘moon-eyed,’” she argued. “I know that Lachance means a lot to her, given the circumstances in which she was recruited in.”

 

“Yes, Antoinetta owes him a great debt, as do many of us here, perhaps with the exception of Vicente.”

 

“Didn’t he try to kill Telaendril at one point?”

 

“Yes, but then he offered her a home when she had none.”

 

Felicienne pursed her lips but said nothing else. Silence fell between the two for a moment longer, both regarding each other and Teinaava’s gaze drifting towards her neck before travelling back up to her eyes and raising a brow. She tucked her necklace under her shirt. Teinaava chuckled. 

 

“So, I have a contract in the Imperial City.”

 

“I do so love pursuing a contract in the Imperial City. The alleys, the shadows, the challenge of evading Phillida’s Legion troops! I envy you.”

 

“Phillida?”

 

“He’s been a thorn in our side for many years now, but he’s too powerful to simply kill. You need to stay as far away from his notice as possible.”

 

“Good to know,” she quipped, reaching for an apple. She would have to head out soon, first thing in the morning. As she took a bite out of her apple, she shivered, a chill settling over her while her chewing slowed and her gaze darted around the room. She would leave first thing in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally updated. University is kicking me in the teeth. I won't be sad to be done. I tried to edit this chapter as well as I could; when I have the whole thing completed I'm going to give it one more once over. I know this chapter feels a little slow, especially for how long it took to get out, but there's a reason for that, I swear. And remember, you can always give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://burningsilenceblog.tumblr.com/)


	7. Burnt and Soured

Antoinetta arrived back to the sanctuary after Felicienne had already left. She had sought the other woman out upon her arrival in the training room, but M’raaj-dar told her that “the little tart” had already left for the Imperial City. She bestowed a scowl on the Khajiit, but didn’t say anything as she moved towards her usual practice dummy. He shot another frost spell at the target he stood in front of. She slid her dagger out and slashed at the dummy, making contact and she felt her shoulder ache. She kept swiping at it, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, each arc of the blade connecting and the metallic sound blooming around them. Perspiration beaded on her brow and upper lip and M’raaj-dar’s voice broke the atmosphere of the room. 

 

“How have you been handling being usurped as Lucien’s favorite by an outsider?” He didn’t turn as he said this, instead he kept his focus on the now-frozen wooden board. 

 

The woman snapped around. “She is just as much a member of our family as the rest of us,” she bit out. “And what was that supposed to mean, anyway?”

 

He stopped and turned around to face the flushed blonde and strode towards her. “Oh come on, you’ve seen the contracts she’s been getting. They should have gone to Ocheeva or Vicente; they’re Executioners after all. She’s newly an Eliminator. Even you’re just a Slayer.” His fur ruffled and he shook his head. “I do not know what Lucien is thinking. He gives her such preference. I suspect he wants to make her his Silencer.”

 

Antoinetta felt a rock settle on her chest, burrowing between her ribs and crushing her sternum. She worked her throat a few times to dislodge her voice, “You, you really think so?”

 

M’raaj-dar bared his teeth. “Yes, it’s quite obvious. And with what is going on right now at that. We do not need some outsider getting their fingers in our business.”

 

The Breton took a deep breath, feeling that tightness press against the air she filled her lungs with. Pressure behind her eyes built, and she brought a hand up to to squeeze the bridge of her nose. She spoke in a low tone, “I’ve heard the three of them speak of her. She’s done very well. I’m not surprised she’s advancing as quickly as she is.”

 

“Pah,” he dismissed. “We do not know anything about her. And she’s away on ‘other business’ more often that she’s been here. We have no proof of her loyalty.”

 

“Now you’re being paranoid.”

 

“Am I? How many of our family members have died or have gone missing this year? Maria, Blanchard, how many others that we don’t know about? And now this little harlot insinuates herself in our home?”

 

“Lucien isn’t stupid,” Antoinetta stated. “He wouldn’t bring in someone he thought could be a threat. You know that.”

M’raaj-dar scoffed. “Perhaps. But men tend to do stupid things around pretty women. You know that,” he mocked. 

 

“He would never risk our family’s safety for something so trivial,” she insisted.

 

The Khajiit opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. A moment passed and his shoulders slumped. “I know.” He ran his hand over his face and back through his hair. “We should just be more careful. That is all I’m saying.” He looked at Antoinetta and let out a sigh. “I apologize for my words earlier. I should not have said what I did; you did not deserve to be the target of my anger.”

 

She shook her head. “No, I understand,” she said, her tone clipped and cool and the Khajiit sighed again. 

 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

 

“I’m fine,” she remarked, “it’s just been a long month, and my last contract went a bit awry.”

 

He laughed and patted her on the back, “Yes, I heard about that! I also heard you gave that bodyguard a run for his septims.”

 

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she agreed. “M’raaj-dar, do you think you might be able to go a little easier on Felicienne?”

 

He scowled again and Antoinetta laughed. “She’s not so bad if you give her a chance.”

 

“She’s a sulky and opportunistic little harlot.”

 

Antoinetta rolled her eyes and heaved a long breath, “She’s really not. You’d know that if you weren’t so surly towards her.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re defending her so much, given the way you feel about Lucien.”

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Even if what you’re saying is true, it’s not as though she returns his hypothetical interest.”

 

M’raaj-dar shrugged, and seemed to dismiss the topic altogether. Antoinetta stared at the Khajiit and saw how his ears twitched and flicked under his fur before he headed towards the door and marched out of the training room. She turned back around to face the pock-marked dummy. Her dagger weighed her arm down and her wrist ached, so she sheathed the blade. The stone in her chest rolled around and sank into her stomach, pulling her heart with it and she felt the pinch and burn behind her eyes and she moved to a seat and slumped into it. 

 

* * *

 

“Nothing for you today,” an Imperial woman told Felicienne when she checked in with her at the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn. 

 

“Really?” she asked. “Not anything?” 

 

“Not a thing,” the publican confirmed. “I know it’s none of my business, but you must be waiting for something important.”

 

“Sort of,” she acquiesced. “I suppose I was just hoping to hear something from my friend by now.” Especially now, she thought, recalling the two Oblivion Gates she encountered on her way back from the Imperial City. Both had been far too close to the main road and she had been forced to enter both and shut them down, delaying her trip further by another week. The sigil stones she retrieved from them thrummed within her bag and weighed on her shoulder and collarbone. She sighed and stretched her arms over her head. “You can’t rush research though, I suppose.” But the Imperial was already heading over to deal with another customer who was actually renting a room, not just using her establishment as a post office. Besides, it wasn’t as though she could tell the Blades to just drop any correspondences off at the abandoned house. They definitely would not consider that a secure location. At least this inn was a reputable establishment. And, best of all, likely wouldn’t draw any suspicion from the Blades. 

 

Seeing that her trip had been unfruitful, she left the cozy building and stepped out into the brisk Evening Star air. The sun had already slipped below the horizon and stained the sky in a wash of orange and violet that bled into the deep black that had already fallen over the eastern hemisphere. She shivered and brought her arms around herself and squeezed her ribs and she began to walk along the sparsely populated road towards the eastern gate and over the bridge across the river. She looked back behind her and scanned the surrounding area. She sighed and reached her hand up to her neck and, finding the chain, glided her hand down it to grasp her pendant, rubbing the back with her thumb. Gooseflesh rose over her arms and neck, the hairs there standing at attention, and her heart fluttered under her breasts. She stood still and silent for a moment before she turned away and, at a quicker pace, she stepped to the well entrance behind the abandoned house. She climbed into the well and grasped the rungs of the ladder with her left hand and unlocked the door with the other. She descended down into the main hall and slid the door shut on her way inside. 

 

“Sister, you’re back!” she heard Telaendril say. “Contract go well?”

 

Felicienne jumped, then laughed. “Yes, it was just a skooma addict.”

 

The elf hummed. “Still, they can be unpredictable. And, on top of the added threat of being seen, it was a good test of your skills,” she said. “You did remain unseen, yes?”

 

“Yeah, his fiancee--who, by the way, could do so much better than him and should really be thanking me--told me he was staying in some abandoned house and I got him there. Oh, and as an added bonus, I’m pretty sure he killed the original resident of that house.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“There was a dead Nord in the basement.”

 

Telaendril laughed and Felicienne grimaced, her lips pulling back and stretching over her teeth. She shrugged at the older woman and excused herself to go to Ocheeva and let her know of her success. Before she visited Ocheeva, however, she stopped by her bed and chest, and deposited the two sigil stones she carried inside. She would need to get those to Martin soon. Hopefully, she would hear from Cloud Ruler before too long. Mythic Dawn activity had been rather quiet, but with the Oblivion Gates that kept popping up she hoped that Martin would find something in his research that led them to retrieving the Amulet of Kings sooner rather than later. The stones emitted a low hum that quieted when she shut the lid and locked it. 

 

When she turned her report in to Ocheeva, the Argonian clapped her on the back and congratulated her on a job well done. The sanctuary mistress informed Felicienne that while they were in the middle of preparing another contract--something about a warlord in Colovia--that they would like her to take, it wasn’t quite at that stage yet, so she would have some leisure time once again. In truth, that relieved the Breton in light of the last week and a half. Tailing Faelian and reentering Oblivion, twice, had taken a toll on her as it was. She thanked Ocheeva for the information and headed back out to the living quarters where she spotted Gogron at the dining table. She didn’t get to speak to him much, though he was always quite warm with her, even if he tended to give her less subtle advice when it came to her contracts, she thought with a smile. 

“What’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, eyeing the suspicious rice dish she suspected Antoinetta created that morning. The scent of garlic hung around the table, pinching her nose and likely kept Vicente away from this corner of the sanctuary. 

 

“Antoinetta made this in the morning. It should still be good,” he said, gesturing to the aforementioned rice. 

 

“Define ‘good,’” she requested, her nose scrunched while she reached for a sweet roll instead.

 

Gogron laughed, a deep sound from his belly, and patted the seat next to him, to which Felicienne sat down and bit into her pastry. “It probably won’t kill you. Antoinetta’s a sweet woman, but she can’t cook worth a damn,” he joked.

 

“Someone needs to stop her,” she mumbled, then stopped to swallow her bite. “This is why I’m never here,” she grinned up at the Orc. 

 

“Hah! I don’t blame you. I think that’s why Telaendril’s out so often, too.”

 

“She is a smart woman.”

 

“Say, I hear congratulations are in order! I wasn’t here when you got promoted.”

 

She thought for a moment and then nodded. “That’s right, you were out in the Colovian Highlands. Bandits, right?”

 

His booming voice chuckled and he slapped her on the back. She coughed, holding her chest as he went on to say, “Yes indeed! Nice and straightforward, that one. Just go in and kill anyone who gets in the way. None of that sneaking around you seem to have to do so much of.”

“I like sneaking around.”

“That’s because you’re made for it. Stealth isn’t for an Orc. And who cares, as long as the target dies?”

“Not getting caught by the guards?”

 

“That’s the beauty of having to go after bandits and marauders,” he exclaimed. “Guards aren’t out that far away, and even if they were, they’d probably just help you out.”

 

She made a drawn out ‘mmm’ sound as she ate another bite. She swallowed, then pushed it towards the Orc. “I can’t eat anymore,” she admitted, “do you want the rest?”

 

“Oh, why not,” he said, already reaching for the roll. “I don’t understand how you Bretons can get by eating so little. Even Imperials eat more than you.”

 

“But we’re known for the best cuisine in Tamriel,” she pointed out.

 

“Bah! Fancy dishes that look like they’re supposed to be artwork isn’t anything to brag about. Besides,” he mused, “if that’s true, explain Antoinetta Marie.”

 

“She’s the exception that proves the rule?” she teased. 

 

“Why don’t you cook for our lowly palates then?”

 

She groaned and dropped her forehead on the table. “I hate cooking. My mother made me do all the cooking back home before I...left.” She tilted her head to the side, pressing her cheek against the rough wood of the table surface. “I will though. If you make it worth my while,” she sang. 

 

“What do you want?”

 

She placed a finger to her mouth, pretending to think. “I want...you to show me how to repair armour,” she decided. “I put my gear through a lot of wear and tear,” she added, remembering how many singe marks she had to pay the blacksmith earlier to remove from her leather armor. 

 

“That’s it? That’s easy. By Sithis, I’d do that for you now if you really wanted me to.”

 

“Really? That seems a waste to ask for.” She groaned again. “A deal’s a deal, though, I suppose.” She nodded. “Sure, I’ll cook tomorrow. But I’m not dealing with anyone being picky. You’ll eat what I make.”

 

“Yes, mother.”

 

She stuck her tongue out at him. 

  

* * *

 

Of course, when she had told Gogron she would prepare the next evening meal, she was unaware Lachance would be back in town. Back in the sanctuary. She didn’t really know if he had been out of town. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information. While she was busy over the cooking spit, Antoinetta was sitting next to the Speaker and engaging him in conversation. This, however, may have been a blessing in disguise; Felicienne would rather not have Antoinetta try to volunteer to help, and Lachance proved to be a better distraction than the younger Breton could have asked for. And it seemed that Gogron had told the entire Family that she was cooking. Now, it seemed to be something of a spectacle. 

 

It’s just a potage, she thought, inwardly wincing as the memory of her mother drilling the recipe into her. And, the memory of the sting of her mother’s wooden spoon across her fingers and backside. 

 

She still couldn’t have anyone walk behind her when she was cooking. 

 

She placed the lid on the pot so it could simmer for the next hour and turned to everyone to say, “I don’t know why you all appear to be waiting. It’s not going to be done for a while yet.”

 

“We just didn’t want to miss such a rare sight,” Antoinetta called out from her seat, grinning at the girl. “You’re so domestic,” she teased. Felicienne caught M’raaj-dar’s chuckle and glared at him, only to hear Lachance’s as well. 

 

“I’m not domestic. Like that’s a sin,” she muttered. “I need to learn to repair my armour.”

 

Although, now that she considered it, she probably could have asked someone up at Cloud Ruler. Too late now, she supposed. 

 

Out of the corner of her eye, as she flipped the hourglass on the side table, she saw how cozy Antoinetta and Lachance appeared to be. She sighed, a hollowness settling in her chest. She hoped whatever had been bothering Antoinetta would blow over now. The girl patted a pocket on her cuirass; she had finally received a letter from Martin, or rather Jauffre, earlier in the day stating that he had made some progress in translating some of the Mysterium Xarxes, and the Blademaster also grew concerned about the security in Bruma now. She would need to head up to the temple soon, but she needed to inquire about her upcoming contract before she left, at least so it didn’t look like she was just skipping town again, particularly since Lachance was with them again. 

 

She took a chair next to Vicente, which was still closer to the fire than the others, and inquired as to how his day had been. They exchanged pleasantries for some time and he inquired about her latest contract, the one Ocheeva had hinted at the previous day, while Felicienne kept an eye on the pot, and laughed with one another after the girl promised Vicente that she left the garlic out of her potage.  She smirked back at Antoinetta, but the other woman’s head still bent towards Lachance, engrossed in whatever the man spoke about. She sighed and turned back towards the front. She caught Vicente’s eye and he raised his brow at her. She looked at him in askance, but he only shook his head and chuckled under his breath. The girl shivered, feeling icy fingers curl up her spine, and she pulled her legs up and onto her seat, hugging them to her chest and digging her chin into the tops of her knees. The weight of her necklace tugged down on her neck and shoulders, anchoring her head where it laid. 

 

The pot simmered. 

 

* * *

 

Felicienne ducked out of the sanctuary long before the sun began to peak over the Valus Mountains, the skyline barely illuminated by the grey reflection of Magnus’ light. The cold permeated the air, currents of it cutting through the thick armour she hand donned that morning. She regretted not purchasing a horse, still, as Bruma by foot itself would take some time. Time that she did not want to spend in her own company. She had grabbed the sigil stones she stored away before leaving, hopeful that they still might be of some use to Martin. She felt their humming in her ears, in harmony with one another, the sound reverberated down her throat and into her chest, tightening around her lungs and abdomen. It rolled around in her stomach, churning its contents and made her flush and sweat, despite the morning frost. 

 

* * *

 

Despite it being over a month, Cloud Ruler Temple remained much the same. Even Martin sat at his usual spot, pouring over his spread of mystical tomes, the Mysterium Xarxes at the forefront. The sunlight reflected off of the floor, though it began to fade with each passing minute. Jauffre had caught her outside and alerted her to the two figures the scouts had seen around the doomstone near the base of the temple, and she planned on heading into town to talk to the captain of Bruma’s guard as soon as she finished with Martin. And maybe got some dinner first. 

 

“Hello there, stranger,” she quipped, plopping on the bench next to the last Septim. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t hear you come in at first.” 

 

“I just got back half an hour ago. Jauffre waylaid me outside about your spy problem.” She leaned against his shoulder, pushing him over and he let out a laugh. The girl grabbed her satchel and set it on the table with a loud thud. She opened it up and pulled the sigil stones she acquired out and slid them over to Martin’s book pile. 

 

Martin nodded and sighed. “Yes, he’s been rather preoccupied with that matter.” 

“And how goes the daedric research, Priest of Akatosh?” she inquired. 

 

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “It goes as well as can be expected. You did get my message?”

 

“Yes, I waited on pins and needles, with bated breath and all.”

 

He side-eyed her then reached for a violet book and flipped it open, turning the pages until he reached what she thought he was likely looking for. 

 

“Through my research, I found that to open the portal to Camaron’s Paradise, we appear to need an assortment of items. I’ve really only been able to translate this first portion, which says we need to be able to acquire the blood of a daedra.”

 

She sat up and turned towards Martin, her brows furrowed. “Like a scamp? That shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, kind of gross, but not hard.”

 

“No,” he corrected. “More like a Daedric Prince’s blood.”

 

Her eyes widened. “Oh, sure, I’ll get right on that, then. I’ll just walk up to one and go ‘Hey, could I get some blood? Asking for a friend of mine.’”

 

The Imperial chuckled and shook his head. “You need to be able to obtain one of their artifacts. Here,” he reached across the table and picked up another purple bound book and handed it to her, “you should read ‘Modern Heretics.’ it has all of the information you need on daedric artifacts.”

 

She eyed the book before lifting her hand to take it from him. She grimaced. “Can’t you give me the simplified version?”

 

He scowled and she shrugged at him. 

 

The older man sighed and rolled his eyes before he opened his mouth to speak, “Didn’t you have family members who were interested in daedric magic?”

 

“Does it need to be a specific artifact, then?” she asked him, looking at her fingers, curling them in towards her palm.

 

“No, it shouldn’t matter. As long as it’s daedric it should be fine.”

 

“Can I assume I’m doing this alone?”

 

Martin had the grace to look sheepish. “I am sorry. I know we’ve been sending you all over Cyrodiil.”

 

“It’s alright; at least this way I can get familiar with my new home province,” she grinned at him. “Besides, I didn’t get to travel much back home in Jehanna. My father travelled all over the place; mother and I didn’t.”

 

“You’re certainly getting all of your travel in now, aren’t you?”

 

She laughed and stretched her arms behind her head before standing up and grabbing her bag. “Speaking of which, I need to get down to Bruma before it gets too dark to fix your security issues.” Felicienne looked back down at Martin. “I’ll be leaving again right after. If I travel through the night, I should be able to get to Aleswell. If I cut through the roads.”

 

“Be careful,” he murmured. “I’ve heard of the Gates opening up all over Cyrodiil. And,” he glanced at the sigil stones she had placed before him, “I’m assuming you have too.”

 

“I’ll be fine. I’m basically an expert at closing those things by now.”

 

“Still,” he said, reaching out for her hand and holding it between his own, “take care of yourself. I know you’ve proven to be quite the capable woman, but,” he paused and glanced down at their hands and dropped hers, “I worry.” 

 

She pushed out an exhale between her tongue and teeth and laughed. “Well, don’t you worry your pretty little head about me. They don’t call me the Hero of Kvatch for nothing. I’m tougher than I look.” She looked up out of the window. “I have to get going. Losing daylight. I got spies to find.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel awful for not updating for so long, however, I just finished up my bachelor's degree and will be taking a year off before pursuing my master's, so that gives me time to really focus on this project, including the planned 'sequel.' Also, thank you to everyone who has read/left kudos/left comments/whatever; it means so much to me that people take the time to look at my work. And please excuse any mistakes: I do all the editing myself, and sometimes things slip through, no matter how many times I comb over my chapters. 
> 
> To keep up-to-date with all things fandom of mine, give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://burningsilenceblog.tumblr.com/) Right now it's mostly just me screaming into the abyss.


	8. Blood of a Daedra

Finding the spies had proven to be a rather straightforward task, though one that had kept her occupied into the long hours of the night. It was dawn before she could head out to Fort Sutch and carry out the hit on the warlord Roderich. After hitching rides with various trading caravans and hiking through the Colovian Highlands, she arrived about a week and a half after leaving Cloud Ruler. The job itself was simple, and sneaking in while invisible made it go by that much faster, and Teinaava’s brief information about the tower to the ruined abbey before she had left led her to decide that she should bring back a gift for him when she finally got back into Cheydinhal. 

 

Now, however, she was holed up in Skingrad on her way back to the sanctuary. She looked at the well-kept stone streets that criss-crossed the layout of the city. In some ways, she found it more impressive than the Imperial City as she craned her neck up to gaze at the buildings that stretched towards the cloud-covered sky. The air carried a hint of the coming spring despite being the middle of Evening Star and the sweet notes of pastries lent fragrant notes to the town as they wafted from Salmo’s Bakery. She found herself loosening her cuirass so the slight breeze would circulate underneath it and she let out a soft breath when it finally came undone. 

 

On her way to search for an inn, she passed an alchemical shop and glanced in the window. She spotted a Dunmer woman who appeared as though she ran the place, and bit her lip. She still needed to obtain a daedric artifact; if all went smoothly, she could take care of that here--if there were any shrines nearby--and then head back to Cheydinhal to turn her report in to Ocheeva, then go to Cloud Ruler. Nice and simple. And contained. 

* * *

 

Falanu Hlaalu made a small hum while Felicienne leaned against her counter. “Daedric shrines, you ask? There are some Sanguine worshippers about north-northwest of here. Nice folks. But Sanguine doesn’t really seem to be the sort you’d be interested in communing with.”

 

The young Breton huffed through her nose, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “You don’t know me,” she muttered. “I have business I need to attend to.” And, in all frankness, Sanguine seemed like one of the less troublesome Princes to deal with--besides Sheogorath, and she wasn’t sure how beneficial praying to herself would be--that was not quite so far out of her way. 

 

Damn Martin and his stupid book, anyway. 

 

The Dark Elf leered at her. “You’re a mage, or a witch, aren’t you? And from High Rock?”

 

“I’m from High Rock, yes.”   
  


“I thought so. You don’t really get too many people from Cyrodiil looking to make deals with Daedra, what with how strict the laws in the Imperial Province are regarding Daedra worship. I understand they’re a bit more open-minded in the land of the Bretons.”

 

Felicienne nodded, remembering that people in her mother’s family tended to lean more towards Daedric rituals than temple services, not completely unheard of within the community of people from the Western Reach, though the Sauveterre family’s “patron” deity was officially Kynareth. 

 

It even said so on the crest.

 

She didn’t even want to do this selling-her-soul business. Would it even work, what with her being the official unofficial Madgod of the Shivering Isles. Could other Daedra tell? She tried asking Haskill before she left the Isles to return to Cyrodiil, but the best she got from him was a shrug and an “I suppose we’ll see.” 

 

“I hear Sanguine likes brandy,” Falanu continued, winking at the girl. “You know, a friend told me.” Felicienne did her best not to roll her eyes. Like that was even a surprising revelation. At least it was something she could purchase from an inn and not something horribly convoluted and impossible to find. 

 

Like the blood of a virginal Priestess of Dibella.

 

* * *

 

“Do you have business with Lord Sanguine?” a portly little Bosmer asked Felicienne when she approached a statue, quite late in the evening now, depicting a horned Daedra holding a beer stein while standing on a human skull. The Bosmer’s eyes lit up. “Are you here for the festivities?”

 

“Festivities?”

 

“Oh dear,” he frowned, “what a dreary life you must lead. This is a place of celebration for us. We dance, we make love…”

 

Felicienne held up one of her hands while she fished through her satchel for a bottle she had acquired while scavenging around Skingrad and held it before her. “I want to leave this as an offering,” she stated, her shoulders relaxing when she saw the leer slide off of the elf’s face. 

 

“Oh yes, yes, that is a suitable offering. You may approach the shrine.”

 

She walked up to the stone statue, trying to ignore the weight of the parishioners’ gazes that roved over her as she set the bottle down on the stand. A pressure built behind her eyes, and a dull, pulsating sensation crept in her stomach. The scent of roses and brandy perfumed the air. 

 

_ “Another mortal here to beg for old Uncle Sanguine to spice up their otherwise drab existence.” _

 

She snapped her head around but saw that no one else spoke while a laugh rumbled in her ears and ran down her back like warm honey. The throbbing intensified and she shook her head, attempting to clear it. She felt a low humming come from the voice as a shiver broke out over her spine and danced over her flesh. A probing sensation wriggled around in her head, and she tried to block it out, feeling a near-audible  _ snap _ as she did so. 

 

The pulsing between her eyes and in the pit of her stomach grew and a sweat began to break out over her skin, her temples beading with moisture as she dragged her tongue across her bottom lip.  _ Don’t worry; you’re not hearing voices. Sheogorath’s realm didn’t leave you that addled. Or _ , the voice paused as if it were thinking _ , I suppose you _ are _  hearing voices. My voice, at least. Don’t look so surprised,  _ it chided _ , I can smell the Madgod all over you.  _ She felt a shiver travel from below her left ear and down the side of her neck, and something substantial.  _ I like you _  the voice continued.  _ There’s something else that’s familiar about you. Have we met before?  _

 

“I’m sure we haven’t,” she murmured.

 

_ Really? Never worshipped at my altar? Overindulged a bit? We’ll find out, I suppose,  _ the voice promised.  _ You want something from me, right? I want something from you. _  Her stomach clenched and she drew in a shuddering breath when she felt a stab of heat in her abdomen.  _ Go to Leyawiin. The countess there is a particularly boring soul, who is hosting another one of her excruciatingly dull dinner parties. I want you to liven it up. _

 

“‘Liven it up’ how, exactly?” She prided herself on the fact her voice remained steady.

 

_ Just use this spell _ \--she felt her fingertips and ears tingle-- _ when all of the guests have arrived for her little party, if you could call it that. _

 

“That’s too straightforward; what’s the catch? I can’t assume that the guards will just let me cast an unknown spell around the countess and her friends.”

 

_ You probably  _ don’t _ want to be noticed,  _ the voice agreed.  _ You should also probably try to clean up a bit; Not for me, but the countess is fussy about who she lets into her little tea parties. Oh right, it’s by invitation only. You’ll need to figure out how to get in there. Have fun! _

 

The creeping sensation dissipated and left her gasping for air, the tightness in her throat and stomach gone at last. She glanced up at the statue again, biting her lip as she mulled over Sanguine’s instructions.

 

Frigid ozone stung her nose.

 

* * *

 

That was how Felicienne found herself way down in Leyawiin in Three Sister’s Lodge, stripped to her smallclothes, holding a too-expensive red velvet dress up to her bony shoulders in front of a damaged mirror. She had already paid the castle a visit and discovered, through shameless flirting with the rather strapping guard who stood at that post, that Countess Alessia’s party would be the following evening. 

 

At least she had made good time to Leyawiin from Colovia. 

 

“I look ridiculous,” she muttered to no one. “What do you do with the hair?” 

 

She huffed and threw the dress on the bed and followed suit, resting her hands on her stomach. She felt the knots from her ribs as she breathed in and out and felt the thudding of her heartbeat underneath. She stared up at the cracks in the ceiling plaster and watched them writhe across the surface as cotton filled her ears when the ceiling began to shimmer and emanated a soft light that broke into the outlines of papillon wings. She heard notes from a lute drifting down the hall as the sound of static increased to a fever pitch and the pressure in her head continued to grow and her skin became too tight for her to fit into and she shivered on the bed and turned to her side as she brought her knees up to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut as all the static vibrated hard enough to turn into a long, steady hum. 

 

Her eyes snapped open and everything appeared back to normal. The ceiling was solid, the room was quiet, and she was on her back. Taking a deep breath, her heartbeat settled down. Her lips turned down in a frown and she worried her bottom lip. She reached up to rub the charm that still lay against her chest and felt its comforting coolness and weight against her clammy flesh. She dragged herself across the scratchy sheets and slid inside, wrapping the covers around her body, and tried to settle in for the evening, her dress hanging onto the edge of the bed, hem skimming the floorboards. 

 

* * *

 

Bound in velvet and brocade, Felicienne stood in front of the private dining room for Countess Alessia Caro and spoke to the guard posted about entering. The Imperial gave her a disdainful look, but his eyes trailed up and down her figure and she cleared her throat and tapped one foot, and he coughed and averted his gaze. 

 

“I suppose you look dressed for it,” he mumbled, “and you seem like the right sort.” He took another glance at her and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, puffing herself up. He rolled his eyes and opened the door, waving her inside. 

 

Everyone turned to stare at her when she entered, so she slunk around to the other side of the table. After a moment, the guests and countess resumed speaking amongst themselves, Felicienne only picking up snippets of their discussion which centered on “the Argonian problem in Leyawiin” and she cringed. She tapped her hands against her thighs and hips, earning a glare from the countess herself, as well as from her handmaiden. When everyone appeared engrossed with each other, she concentrated on the sensation that Sanguine had imparted to her to call the unknown spell forward. As gently, and discreetly, as she could, she raised her hands in front of her, towards the countess, and, closing her eyes, she let the energy that had been building go.

 

Her eyes snapped open when she heard shrieks of outrage and felt the whisper of cloth against her skin and a sudden draft. Chairs were knocked over and the guests were running around the dining room, and her eyes travelled down to look at herself and she let out an angry shout upon seeing her own near-nudity. Her head snapped back and forth, eyes scanning the floor, but her clothing remained elusive and she dodged an enraged party guest as they must have surmised that she was the cause of the chaos that now ensued. Countess Alessia shouted for the guards to “do something!” and to “grab her!” but Felicienne ambled out of their way and made for the exit, though their cries and fists pursued her straight out into the city and outside of its walls. 

 

The town guards chased her for a good five miles before Felicienne looked back and saw they they had finally ceased. 

 

The weather finally biting into her, now that the adrenaline had worn off, she found herself trembling and cast a mild shield spell to keep her somewhat insulated against the winter air. She stayed off of the main roads and cursed Sanguine, and Martin, her entire trek back towards Colovia and the Daedric Prince’s shrine. The trip took even longer as she had to travel through the wilderness and fields, and she reached the shrine after a week of subsisting off of what she could forage and had managed to snag a pair of homespun trousers she had come across at a campsite. 

 

When she approached Sanguine’s gathering, her face must have given away her mood as the worshippers did not try to stop and greet her this time as they had before. Marching up to his shrine, she felt that familiar throbbing presence sink into her flesh. 

 

_ A rousing success, mortal! _  Again, that warmth dripped down her spine and snaked around her insides, heat emanating through her core. She wrapped her arms around herself and glared at the statue.  _ It looks like you joined in the festivities as well. Good for you; you need to lighten up a bit. You’ll find your equipment, all of it, in that chest over there, and I left a little something extra for you as well. Consider it a reward for a job well done. I think I’ll keep an eye on you; you’re going places. _ She felt another, deeper push inside of her and she took a step back, feeling her face flush and sweat beading around her temples.  _ Perhaps you’ll come back and join us sometime, little mortal. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a virgin here. _

 

She let out a squawk and nearly jumped back away from the statue, Sanguine’s laugh reverberating in her ears. She fixed the Bosmer ‘priest’ there with a scowl and strode to the chest Sanguine said that her things would be in. She opened it up and everything including the items that had been stored at the inn lay inside, as well as a wooden staff in the shape of a rose.

 

Of course, the Sanguine Rose. At least the trip, and humiliation, hadn’t been in vain, she thought, her shoulders slumped. She glanced up to see the practitioners staring, leering, at her.

 

“Hey, turn around!” she demanded as she pulled out her linen clothing. When they didn’t move, she conjured a fireball in her hand and told them to not make her ask a second time.

 

They complied with her wishes and she was left to dress in peace. 

 

* * *

 

She trudged her way up the winding path towards Cloud Ruler, the Rose strapped to her back. Her boots crunched the frozen snow that blanketed the ground and her huffs spilled out of her mouth in curling wisps that wafted around her face, dissolving against her skin. A dull thrum emanated from the staff against her. Upon reaching the top of the trail, she pushed the doors open to the fortified temple. She shrugged the staff off of her shoulder and kept it clasped in her hand as she made her way up the stairs and to the main entrance. Heat gathered against her palm and she grabbed the staff with her left hand, rubbing her now-free hand against the top of her thighs to alleviate the tingling sensation that plagued it and she stared at the Rose, biting her lip while she took in the details of the object. 

 

Dragging her gaze back up the to main hall, she found Martin, once again, face-deep in one of his many books. His head snapped up and his eyes widened when they settled on her hand. The Imperial stood up and strode towards her, and she took a step back at his intensity. 

“Where did you get that?” he asked her. 

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” she responded, clenching her jaw. 

 

He exhaled, shoulders slumping. He brought his hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Forgive me,” he said “I’m just,” he paused and pursed his lips, sighing again, through his nose, then opened his mouth to continue, “I never thought to see this again.” He reached out his arm towards the Breton and she handed him the staff. “I once possessed it, briefly. It almost seems like a lifetime ago.”

 

Felicienne quirked a brow. “You had the Sanguine Rose?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her after she relinquished the object. 

He nodded, his eyes running over the artifact while he clasped it in both hands. “I told you, I wasn’t always a priest,” he murmured. “As a young man, I grew impatient with the restrictions put in place by the Mages’ Guild. I wasn’t the only one. We felt we were being held back by the more senior members, kept in the dark and unable to reach our full potential. We threw ourselves into the riddles of daedric magic. We hungered for forbidden secrets. Knowledge and power were our gods.” He looked back up to the girl. “We were young and foolish, and tired of the constraints placed on us as apprentices. Sanguine offered an...alternative to that life.” Martin was interrupted by Felicienne clearing her throat. He ignored her mutter of “I’ll bet he did” and continued. “We got in over our heads.” He shut his eyes. “You can guess the rest. People died. My friends died.” He opened his eyes and turned back towards her. “I’ve left those days behind me. But the bitter wisdom of one who’s been a fool is not without value.”

 

Felicienne opened and closed her mouth a couple times, but only nodded instead. She observed him for a moment longer while he turned the staff over and over again in his hands.

 

“I didn’t know,” she finally broke in. She shuffled her foot against the wood of the floor, scraping her boot along the grain. “I’m...sorry? I mean, I don’t know what to say.”

 

“I admire your dedication to our cause,” he told her. She tilted her head to the side and he continued, “To have obtained this, and then to give it up? I know how difficult that is.”

 

“It’s nothing, really,” she stammered, glancing at her hands with her face aflame. “I don’t really like how it makes me feel.”

“The ritual will destroy it, you know.”

 

“I think that’s fine.”

 

Martin let out a laugh. “I won’t ask you what you did to receive such an item.”

She snapped her head up to see his smiling visage. “It was nothing bad! Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking!”

 

He laughed harder and turned away from her to place the staff on his abandoned table top with her trailing behind him. “I don’t think any less of you,” he told her, “if that’s what you’re worried about. Difficult times, and all that.”

“I just had to play a prank; get your head out of the gutter. You’re a priest, for Akatosh’s sake.”

 

“Yes, but I know how,” he cleared his throat, “lively Sanguine worshippers can be. And Sanguine himself, of course.”

 

He turned to look back at her after setting the Rose down and chuckled at her, the pallid skin suffused with scarlet while she clenched her jaw--and fists. 

 

“Relax,” he said. “We do still get the paper here from time to time.” He gestured towards a recent edition of the  _ Black Horse Courier _  where the headline “Prank Spoils Society Gathering!” was emblazoned across the front page. She huffed and slumped into a seat across from Martin’s usual spot. “When I saw you had the Rose, I figured this must have been what that was about,” he clarified. “Your virtue is still intact,” he joked. 

 

She coughed, and rubbed the back of her neck, her eyes drifting to the Rose. “You might have mentioned that earlier,” she complained. 

 

“I do hope that this might have curbed whatever curiosity you might have developed for daedric cults,” he added, catching her gaze. She looked up and bit her lip before her mouth twisted into a frown. 

 

“Last I checked, you weren’t my father,” she snapped, picking herself up from the table.

 

“Wait,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I apologize; I shouldn’t have said that. I know too well how seductive the lure of power is that comes with dabbling with daedric magic. I only worry. I meant no offense.”

 

“Yeah,” she mumbled, leaning against the nearest wooden pillar. “I know. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m just frustrated. And tired.” She looked over to the Rose again, her eyes gliding over the petals atop of it. Despite being made of wood, the petals seemed to rustle as if disturbed by the minute breeze that wound through the hall from the movement of the guards. Already she felt the absence of its weight against her back and the heat it left across her shoulder blades. She hadn’t used it, for the same fear that Martin expressed. The minute vibrations that had been present made themselves known again at the base of her neck. She shifted from side to side, raising and lowering her heels at the same time. Her skin burned and her bones itched and she gnawed on her lip.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” Martin asked, his voice filtering into her ears as he began to get up before she could tell him that she was fine. “You look unwell; you should get some rest.”

 

She nodded and pressed the back of her chilled hand to her cheek, the heat from it branding her frigid flesh. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“You’re exhausted. Please, take my room. The bed is sure to be more comfortable than the bedrolls in the barracks.”

 

She snapped her gaze back to him and began to shake her head in dissent, but he interrupted her as she opened her mouth. “Don’t argue with me. Not now. We’ve been asking a lot of you, the least you can let me do is let you use my room.”

 

“Where will you sleep then?”

 

“I won’t be heading to bed any time soon, but I’ll just sleep with the soldiers.”   
  


“Oh, come on, Martin,” she began, but he cut her off.

 

“I’m serious. Besides, I can’t think of a place I’d be safer.”

She furrowed her brow, her eyes darting back towards the Rose and back again towards Martin. “Are you sure? I’m dangerously close to caving at your offer of an actual bed,” she chortled.

 

“I’m very sure,” he told her. “Go to bed. And there’s usually a wash basin with warm water around this time; I think one of the guards leaves it. Go ahead and take advantage of it.”

 

“You trying to say something?” she asked while she grinned at him. 

 

She thought she saw the heat creep across his cheeks and nose, imbuing his features with color. She laughed and told him to stop worrying, that she would be sure to make herself presentable before sleeping in his bed. She walked down the hallway towards the suite hearing his sputters trailing behind her. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters! I would have felt bad only updating one chapter when this one was pretty much finished, especially after not updating for so long. I'm nervous about this one, since it's a little more experimental for me. Please leave any feedback: constructive criticism is always welcome.


	9. To Consume and Devour

 

She awoke later in the morning than she had intended, dazed with the sting of brandy lingering on her tongue, her limbs aching and hair perfumed. She wrapped the covers around her body, cocooning herself against the grey daylight that trickled down the walls opposite the window and she watched soft tufts of snow drift down to land out of sight. The itching and throbbing had ceased and left her flesh tepid and she bit down on her lip, feeling the burst of sweet copper that coated her tongue. She shivered and pressed her thighs together and heard a soft knock on Martin’s door. His voice came out, hesitant, asking if she was alright. 

 

Bringing the blanket with her, she opened the door and looked up into his face, taking in his furrowed brow and downturned mouth. “I meant to wake earlier,” she began to apologize before he cut her off.

 

“You needed the sleep. But I heard you were rather restless?” His eyes widened and he said, in a rush, “The guards mentioned something.”

 

“I suppose,” she mumbled, looking over his shoulder, down the still-dark corridor. “I don’t really remember. Must have been more tired than I thought; I still feel a little out of sorts.” Her eyes darted up to his face, then fluttered down again. “Was there something you needed from me?” she asked.

 

“Ah, no, not really. I haven’t made much more progress with the book and staff since we spoke last night, if I’m to be perfectly honest with you. I just, I was concerned when I didn’t see you at breakfast with the other Blades, especially hearing how poorly you slept.” 

 

She shrugged, ducking her head down and avoiding his eyes. “I’m alright,” she insisted, but fell silent once again, keeping her eyes focused on her bare feet, watching the blue veins spread across the bony white appendage, mapping their course over the expanse of skin. “Do you need me for anything else right now? I think I might head out if there’s nothing going on, if you don’t need me.”

 

Martin’s frown deepened, but shook his head. “No, I mean, not that I, we, don’t want you here, but if you need a break for anything, you wouldn’t be missing anything.” 

 

She let out a soft laugh and tightened the covers around her, the warmth of the hall drifting over her as the chill of the stone floor soaked the soles of her feet. She began to fidget as Martin stood there, unmoving. She flushed, gazing up at him through her dark lashes. “Do you mind terribly? I sort of need to dress.”

 

His mouth formed a small ‘oh’ before his face heated and he mumbled an apology and staggered out of the doorway. She let a small smile flit across her features before the corners of her lips turned down and her brow drew together. She slid the door shut and pressed her back against it and turned her gaze at the unkempt bed where she spent a restless night. 

 

Shivering, she began to gather her clothing from the floor, averting her gaze from the rumbled mattress. 

* * *

  

The trip to Cheydinhal was relatively uneventful, something that unsettled Felicienne, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She did not hurry her way to the sanctuary, but stopped at Newlands Lodge instead. She settled in on a barstool and ordered a pint when she felt someone else’s presence next to her.

 

“I thought I recognized you,” Mathieu said.

 

She turned to look at the other Breton and laughed. “You almost scared me,” she told him. “You’re so quiet. I didn’t know you would still be in town.” She grinned at him and laughed again, “Are you making some more time with Antoinetta?”

 

He let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. “No, and I just got back into town, truth be told. And I think Antoinetta’s too busy with Lucien,” he stated, his eyes roving the younger girl’s face. He saw her suck in a breath and turn her gaze down before nodding.

 

“Oh, are they…?”

 

“Sometimes,” he admitted, shrugging. “Not as often as she would like; he doesn’t visit the Sanctuary that often.”

 

“Everyone says that, but it feels like he’s always there.”

 

“Yes, that is rather odd. Only started happening recently.” 

 

She shivered and brought her hand up to rub at her pendant. She caught his eyes dropping down to it and moved her hand back down to her lap. “He’s weird,” she muttered. “I don’t know what Antoinetta really sees in him.”

 

Mathieu snorted. “Same here.”

 

She fell silent, peering into her ale, but not taking a drink. Her breath formed ripples in the amber surface of the liquid, distorting her reflection. Bubbles rose to the top, adding to the foam that still lingered, clinging to the sides of the container. She felt her breath fill out her lungs, expanding despite the tension that settled there, and she swirled her cup and watched the motion disturb the drink’s effervescence. Cold bit into her fingers as she held her drink, the sensation crept up her arm and down her spine, pricking at the back of her neck. 

 

“What do you see in him?”

 

She snapped her head back to Mathieu. “Excuse me?”

 

“What do you see in Lucien? I thought that was a pretty obvious question.”

 

“Nothing! He’s weird, and he’s always around.  And...intense.” She bit her lip. “I just wasn’t aware they were actually, you know. Kind of thought that Antoinetta was suffering from a case of unrequited feelings.”

 

“I imagine that that’s all it really is,” Mathieu scoffed. 

 

“That’s a little terrible,” she mused. “I mean, she seems to care about him a lot.”

 

Mathieu hummed, his eyes still locked onto her. “I’m not saying Lucien doesn’t value her; she’s still a family member,” he ignored Felicienne’s grimace, “and therefore he respects her. He’s nothing if not professional.” 

 

He raised his eyebrow at the snicker that escaped her. 

 

“That doesn’t seem very professional to me,” she told him. She worried her lip, her eyes flitting back and forth between him and her drink. Hearing his rough sigh, she broke her silence, “What about you two?”

 

“It’s the same.”

 

“I clearly don’t get out enough, or have enough of a social life of my very own,” she joked, smirking at her companion. 

 

A smile crossed his face, softening his eyes. “I lost someone, earlier this year. Antoinetta has been a great source of comfort for me.”

 

Felicienne frowned, mouth open before she closed it to swallow. “Oh, oh I’m so sorry. That was insensitive of me! I didn’t know; Antoinetta didn’t say anything. My mother used to tell me I let my mouth run away from me.”

 

“That is a cause for concern.”

 

“I mean it; I had no idea.”

 

“I’ve come to terms with it,” he murmured. “She was, well, there was no one like her. She was so beautiful, and talented. Ah, but listen to me. What kind of life would we have had? A temple marriage and a house full of children? I’d farm and she’d do needlepoint and mend all my shirts for me? She was Dark Brotherhood through and through, as am I, and that would have been...impractical, to say the least.”

 

“Did she die on a contract?” she asked, a hitch to her voice.

 

He let out another sigh. “I can’t really say. Black Hand business. And besides,” he looked away from her, his expression changing; he looked as if he had swallowed glass, “they never exactly found a body.” He stopped upon hearing a small sniffle and saw her too bright eyes gleaming in the firelight of the inn. “You’re so sensitive,” he murmured. “How did you manage to become Lucien’s pet project.”

 

He watched her larynx bob up and down as she worked those muscles and she cleared her throat before speaking. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t have a choice.”

 

“We all have a choice,” he chastised. “You accepted that first contract.”

 

“I know that,” she whispered, glaring at him. “I didn’t, I don’t, what was I supposed to do?” she let out a trembling breath, and he grew alarmed when he saw two fat tears roll  down her cheeks. She blinked and brought her fists to her eyes to rub them away. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I’m not myself today.” 

 

She stood to leave, but stopped short when his hand darted out to grab hers. Startled, she looked down at him, his eyes boring into her. “He did not do right by you. You’re not made for this life, are you?”

 

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but made no move to release herself, and his hand wasn’t restrictive; it clasped hers, his palm warm and soft. “What else would I do? I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” she mumbled, picturing vibrant mushroom trees and fluorescent elytra and a room made of butterflies, and the damp scent of rotting roses.

 

“No you don’t,” he agreed, still looking at her. “None of us do; our lives are stolen from us, so we do the same to others.” He brought his other hand up to cup her cheek, feeling the dampened flesh under his palm. His gaze drifted towards her mouth, red-bitten and swollen, still glazed with water from her earlier tears. She jerked away from him and he made to apologize. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, gathering her things. “I have to get going anyway; I should check in with Ocheeva so she knows I’m back in town,” she clarified, her voice brittle and tremulous. 

 

He stared for some time at the empty air where she stood, palms holding the memory of tears.

 

* * *

 

Entering the sanctuary, Felicienne crept to the living quarters to pack her satchel into her chest; she still didn’t feel like sleeping just yet, despite the lateness of the hour. The dank dungeon air seeped into her armor and she hugged her arms around herself. Padding into the room, she started when she noticed a dark figure in one of the dining chairs across the way of the otherwise empty chamber.

 

“For an assassin, you’re awfully jumpy,” Antoinetta laughed. 

 

“You startled me,” Felicienne accused, a smile on her face. “I thought you would be entertaining Lachance,” she added, quirking a brow. 

 

Antoinetta frowned at the girl, but shifted her eyes from her. “Where would you get that idea from?”

 

“I ran into Mathieu at the lodge, and he spilled the beans.”

 

“I’m going to kill him.”

 

“Is it a secret?”

 

“Well, no, not really. It’s just-” Antoinetta cut herself off and looked back and forth between Felicienne and the wall. 

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. I’m just being silly.”

 

They were silent for a bit, and Felicienne eventually settled down onto her bed, removing her armor and heaving a deep sigh, clad only in her linen shirt. She heard the creak of the wooden chair as Antoinetta got up and settled into her own bed next to Felicienne’s. The silence persisted. Felicienne’s heart pounded within her ribcage, knocking her sternum against the jeweled pendant. The coverlet was rough on her skin, scratching her limbs and the dust from them tickled her nose. She let out a breath that rattled through her throat.

 

“Sister,” Antoinetta’s voice stole into her musings, “are you alright? You seem...preoccupied.”

 

“I’m fine,” she repeated. 

 

“Did something happen while you were away?”

 

“Something always happens,” she breathed. When Antoinetta failed to say anything in return, Felicienne spoke up again. “You love him, don’t you?”

 

No answer came at first, and Felicienne heard the older woman inhale. “Who do you mean?”

 

The girl rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Lachance. Who else would I mean?” Then, when Antoinetta still didn’t say anything. Felicienne sighed. “Nevermind, it’s not my business.” She turned on her side to face the blonde. “You’re a good friend to me, probably the best I’ve ever had.”

 

“He asked after you, after we-”

 

“I don’t need to know.” Felicienne flopped back to her original position. “I know I’m gone quite a bit; I have other obligations.”

 

“You know that’s not why,” Antoinetta snapped, face burning and eyes bright. 

 

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any of it.”

 

“He goes out of his way to give you better contracts, and you’ve only been with us a few months. He asks after you if he visits and you’re not here. He got you that pretty bauble you wear around your neck.”

 

“That was a bonus for a contract-”

 

“He changed it for you. He thought it would ‘suit you better,’” Antoinetta bit out. “And you know that,” she finished. 

 

Felicienne sat up on her bed, shirt hem bunching up around her thighs, and slammed her hands down on the mattress. “I didn’t ask for anything of that. I didn’t ask for him to be so invested in whatever it is he thinks he can get out of me, and I certainly don’t want him to bring me up to you after you two finish fucking. I didn’t ask for any of this, this bullshit. Running around all over Cyrodiil, alone, c-consorting with daedra, killing people for money...my whole life turned to shit when I came here-” She breathed through the tightness of her chest and the burning behind her eyes, but refused to bring her hands up to her face, instead clutching her shirt enough that she distantly feared it might rip. 

 

Antoinetta stared, wide-eyed at the girl in front of her, but Felicienne wasn’t quite finished. She turned her wet eyes to the blonde. “Please don’t hate me,” she pleaded. “I don’t know what I would do here if you hated me.”

 

Antoinetta looked away first. “I don’t hate you,” she mumbled, a weight settling in her stomach. “You haven’t done anything; it’s just, he’s really taken you under his wing-”

 

“Can we please not talk about this. I don’t want to know,” Felicienne pleaded. 

 

Antoinetta opened her mouth a few times, but nodded, and watched the girl’s shoulder slump in what she assumed was relief. “Talk to me,” she murmured, getting off of her bed to sit next to the younger Breton. 

 

Felicienne dropped her head to her companion’s shoulder and sniffled. “I’ve had a rough few days.” She pressed her thighs together, swallowing. “I just want to be home right now.”

 

“You are home.”

 

Felicienne glanced up at Antoinetta and frowned. “Yeah,” she conceded. “I suppose I am.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter Nine! It's a bit shorter than what I normally post, but the end here felt right. I tried to extend it, but everything I did felt clunky and "wrong." Again, all mistakes are mine. I'm my own editor, so sometimes things slip through even though I try to go through my work with a fine-tooth comb. When the whole piece is completed, I'll go through and re-edit this thing in it's entirety. And, if you want, follow me on Tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/silencebrulant where I usually explain myself and my absences.


	10. The Cost of Success

The next week or so proved to be blessedly uneventful, despite the vivid dreams that plagued Felicienne’s sleep, where everything was too bright, too broken, and stitched back together in a jigsaw of fragments and shards. And still, the cloying perfume of crushed petals lingered in her memory, leaving her hot and clammy when she woke, the floral taste in her mouth. Antoinetta had asked several times if she needed to see a healer, and each time Felicienne declined, stating that ‘a priest couldn’t help her anyway.’

 

That didn’t mean that she wouldn’t occasionally stop by the local chapel. She sat there, watching the light filter through the stained glass, and listened to the hymn to Arkay that floated in the background. It was a Middas in Morning Star, so fewer people found themselves in need of the blessings of the Nine. She relaxed against the pew, shutting her eyes, ignoring the scent of woodsmoke and leather that drifted through the air. 

 

“I didn’t take you for a chapel-goer.”

 

She jerked and almost slipped off the smooth wood in her efforts to turn to face the source of the deep voice that had disturbed her peace. 

 

“For gods’ sake, you’re quiet,” she mumbled, face stinging and heart trying to escape through her mouth. She looked at him, fully, and without the black robes she almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was still gathered at the base of his neck, but in a quilted doublet and breeches he looked nearly normal. A vague sense of deja vu tugged at the back of her mind, but she shrugged it off. She cleared her throat when he settled in next to her, their outer thighs pressed against each other. “I like the atmosphere,” she muttered, shifting only millimeters away. “It’s quiet here.”

 

Lachance nodded, but did not make any further movement towards her. “Telaendril said I might find you here, said you’d made it a habit to come every so often.”

 

She glared at the Imperial. “You having her follow me?”

 

He raised his brow at her. “No, she’s on business for Ocheeva and has happened to see you here.”

 

“I didn’t even notice her,” she mused.

 

“You’re not supposed to.”

 

She slumped down in her seat. “And what, you decided to check up on me? Do I not get a life outside of, you know,” she muttered, scanning the room, but the few people who were there paid little to no attention to the two figures in the back row of the chapel. 

 

“As long as you remember what comes first. Despite your apparent success on your contracts, you are having a difficult time adjusting. I’ve noticed for some time. Prone to tears and weeping,” he scoffed, sneering at her for the first time since they met. She winced. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your reaction to our discussion of the Motierre contract.” 

 

She swallowed, the flesh on her arms and the back of her neck going goose, and she shrank further from him. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, fingers digging into her skin and pressing against the bones underneath, grinding them. She gasped, and felt herself tearing up, and to anyone who might be bothered to observe the situations it would appear to be a comforting embrace as Lachance stared ahead, seemingly at the altar in the front of the room. She heard him sigh and his grasp on her loosened, but did not disappear. He rubbed small circles with his thumb on the top of her shoulder.

 

“You have a lot of talent,” he admitted. “You’ve performed some of the cleanest contracts I’ve seen in a long while. You’re resourceful, you can think on your feet, and you have a knack for stealth I did not originally think you capable of. You haven’t bungled any of your jobs, so far. And, despite you dawdling to return to Cheydinhal, you finish your assignments quickly.”

 

“What can I say? I’m a people-pleaser.”

 

“Don’t be glib; it’s more than that. You’re quite good. I’m trying to help you advance,” he said, steel in his voice, “and you are often disrespectful towards me.”

 

She let out a huff snapped her head back to him, glaring now. “How so? I keep the Tenets,” she questioned. He was silent, staring ahead and the muscles in his jaw working with his mouth pressed in a firm line, and she let out a scoff of laughter when it became apparent he was not going to elaborate on his accusation, “Is it because you think I’m avoiding you back home? I didn’t realize my respect was contingent on that,” she snapped, “otherwise I would have gone out of my way to make sure to fawn on you like everyone else does.” His grip became painful again. 

 

“Watch yourself,” he warned. “I’m still your Speaker and the head of your home.”

 

She nodded, and bit out an apology. “Why do you even care?” she asked.

 

He hummed. “I remember when I first recruited you, those months ago. Back in Bravil. You were so frightened, despite your pathetic attempt at a brave front.”

 

“You broke into my room, in the dead of night. I was barely dressed!” she interrupted.

 

“And you were soft,” he continued, rubbing her shoulder once again. “You’re still soft, in spite of your months with us.” His hand slowed and the pressure lightened, the strokes becoming longer. “Sweet little thing. How did you find yourself amongst a group of homicidal cutthroats?”

 

She stayed quiet, shrunken in on herself, shivering under the caress of his hand. “I don’t know what else to do,” she admitted. “I’ll never have a normal life, there’s something wrong with me. Or I’m cursed.”

 

“You don’t need a mediocre life,” he chastised. “I want you to flourish here,” he murmured, turning his gaze back to her. 

 

She blushed under his scrutiny and swallowed. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

 

“Dear girl, you always have a choice.”

 

They sat in silence, the sounds of the chapel filtering around them, and Felicienne slid just a bit closer to him than she’d been before. He didn’t remove his hand. 

 

* * *

 

She didn’t go back to the sanctuary right away and, instead, wandered around the outskirts of the city and made her way down to the shore of the little creek that ran through the city. The air still carried the chill of the morning on it, but Magnus was out, thawing the remainder of stubborn hoarfrost that clung to the low-lying flora. She sat and watched the lapping of the water against the bank, the daylight glittering off of the surface and hugged her knees to her chest as the damp earth sent a frisson up her spine. 

 

She thumbed her necklace, just underneath the shirt she wore, pressing it against her breastbone.

* * *

 

It was early evening before she returned to her musty home underneath the city.

 

“Oh look who’s finally decided to return. Are you actually going to put some work in or are you going to be leaving that to the rest of us?” M’raaj-dar greeted her. 

 

Felicienne scowled and opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by their Speaker  _ who apparently decided to stay longer _ and catch up on his reading, if his appearance was any indication. He sat on the other side of the main room, flipping through a book Felicienne often saw Teinaava read. 

 

“She finished a contract not that long ago, M’raaj-dar,” Lachance told him, eyes still on the book in his hands. Felicienne huffed and crossed her arms. Lachance snapped the book shut and placed it on the small table nearby. “Besides,” he continued, turning towards Felicienne, “there’s something coming up I want you free for. The details are being worked out, but it’s a large job and I think you will find it particularly enjoyable.”

 

M’raaj-dar scoffed and muttered an “of course” under his breath, and the Imperial fixed the Khajiit with a look, brows raised and mouth firm. Felicienne swallowed and shifted her weight back and forth between her legs, and M’raaj-dar ducked out of the room in the direction of the training chamber. Lachance rose from his seat and walked towards the Breton, stopping right in front of her. Felicienne tilted her head back to look him in the eye and kept herself from taking a step back. He placed his hands on her shoulders, gripping, thumbs drawing circles on the bones there. She swallowed again and made to speak. 

 

Lucien spoke first.

 

“As I said, the details are still being worked out, but you should speak to Ocheeva; everything is already in motion, and she can fill you in on the information you need to know.” She nodded, and Lucien’s hands were still on her shoulders and she still looked at him. “I have something for you; you were supposed to receive it after the Fort Sutch job, but there were some delays. They just finished it this afternoon and I thought I would deliver it to you myself.”

 

Her voice lodged in her throat, and the sound of a door creaking made her spring back, just a bit, from the Imperial. Lucien turned towards the source of the noise as Vicente walked into the room. The vampire glanced at the two and laughed. 

 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, Speaker. I still had some things I need to go over with you.”

 

Felicienne was already on her way down the hall towards Ocheeva’s room, Vicente’s laughter ringing in her ears and heating her face. Her hands shook as she opened the door to the Argonian woman’s room. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the Breton apologized when Ocheeva snapped her head up. She caught a glimpse of the cover to the book she had open before her superior snapped it shut and stifled a chuckle. 

 

“That’s quite alright, dear,” the older assassin said, clearing her throat and tucking the novel away. “Did Lucien send you in here?”

 

“Er, yeah, he did. There’s a job for me?”

 

* * *

 

Vicente was still chuckling as Lucien and he made their way down to Vicente’s chambers. “She bolted away from you like a startled fawn, brother,” he teased, tilting his head to look at his companion.

 

Lucien didn’t reply, his posture rigid with his arms crossed over his chest. 

 

“I really do have something I need to discuss with you.” 

 

They reached Vicente’s room, and the Speaker let out a harsh exhale and turned towards his vampiric associate. “What was it you wished to talk about?”

 

Vicente quirked a brow and smirked, before his face pinched itself into a frown. “Due to the recent investigation that’s been launched, regarding the unfortunate deaths of our family members, recent evidence has come to light that the traitor may have ties to this Sanctuary. Your Sanctuary, Lucien.”

 

Lucien drew back, the corners of his mouth turned down and his brow furrowed. He moved to sit down at Vicente’s desk. Turning back towards the Breton, he asked, “What evidence is there?”

 

“To be completely frank, it’s scant at best. We know that they’ve been active for quite some time, over a year at least,” he stopped at Lucien’s jerky nod and sighed. “We don’t know for how long they’ve been active, but their actions began to crop up when everyone who is here now resided, well, here. Of course, that doesn’t truly mean anything. I’m loathe to admit that anyone here would blaspheme in such a way; it could easily be someone who was here years earlier. I can’t say for sure.”

 

Lucien pushed the hood of his robe back and rubbed his forehead and groaned. “I’ll have Belisarius audit our records over the past two years. I’ll never hear the end of it if I request any farther back. And I’ll see if Mathieu remembers anything we can use from his days here. He was close to Blanchard, from what I recall; he has a vested interest in uncovering this traitor,” Lucien stated. “He’s been in town a bit more frequently than normal,” he mused. 

 

Vicente hummed. “We need to get this sorted soon; the other members are beginning to get antsy, and it’s getting harder to assuage their worries. Especially with Antoinetta’s talent in eavesdropping,” he ended on a crescendo, rolling his eyes when he heard scampering on the other side of his door.

 

Lucien let out a chuckle. “That woman,” he muttered, a small smile on his face. 

 

“Indeed. She’s quite remarkable, really. As you’ve seen before she’s quite taken with Felicienne. They’ve grown close during Felicienne’s time here. I was worried she wouldn’t integrate with our lifestyle which, as you know, does happen from time to time, but she’s done exceptionally well. It seems your faith in her was not misplaced.” Vicente paused, watching Lucien. “Tell me, if you will, why have you given Felicienne the Skingrad job? I thought Antoinetta would be perfect for it; Felicienne’s behavior tends to be, well, a farouche, for lack of a better term. She might blow her cover.”

 

“And so?” Lucien countered. “The manor will be locked, and guarded. They wouldn’t be able to get out in any case.”

 

Vicente nodded. “True, but I can’t help but wonder at your motivations. If Felicienne successfully completes this job, it would be quite the feather in her cap.”

 

“What about my motivations?” Lucien asked, drawing himself up from his seat and staring down at Vicente. “I think she would be well-suited for this, and do not forget that I am the Speaker of this Sanctuary.”

 

“Of course, Lucien, just,” Vicente fell silent, taking in the glower of the Imperial’s face before sighing, “do you not worry it might be a bit much for the girl? She’s not even been here six months and she’s already an Eliminator. I speak only out of love--as I have grown somewhat fond of her--not to call into question your judgement.” Vicente watched the Imperial bristle at his words. 

 

“She’s resilient.”

 

“She is,” the vampire agreed. “Everyone has a breaking point though, even assassins.”

 

Lucien nodded and swept out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. 

* * *

 

When Lucien approached Felicienne again, he saw her facing the wall in the living quarters, staring at a point on the stone. 

 

She was wearing a simple green frock, and he found his eyes wandering to her decollete, spying her prominent collar bones and slim neck, revealed by her hair, for once, being away from her face and swept up in a more traditional, Breton style--a far cry from her usual appearance.  He observed the rise and fall of her shoulders and the way she worried her bottom lip, the curve of her-- 

 

“Sorry,” she muttered, startled, her voice breaking into his thoughts, “I didn’t know you were there.”

 

He inclined his head towards her, and motioned for her to follow him with his hand. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”

 

“Am I in trouble?”

 

“I believe I told you before that, if you were in trouble, you would know.”

 

She nodded and fell into step next to him, glancing at him every so often as they walked to a quiet corner in the foyer, out of the way of the normal foot traffic and near the book nook a few of them favored. The same area they’d had their first conversation those months ago, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. 

 

“I told you that I have your bonus for the Fort Sutch contract,” he started, and her eyes drifted down to his side to see a moderately sized brown parcel somewhat concealed by the sleeve of his robes. He handed it to her, and she felt its weight, secure in her fingers, and unwrapped it. 

 

Dark velvet revealed itself, trimmed with fur and a brocaded inset. She felt the warmth that radiated off of it, delicate spellwork that had been woven into every stitch. This must have cost a pretty septim to be commissioned, she thought. “This is far too nice for me,” she told him. Her face burned and wings beat against her ribs. 

 

He frowned. “It’s for a job well done. And, I think it will prove useful to you for your next contract. You have spoken to Ocheeva already, correct?”

 

“I have.”

 

“Good. So you understand what’s expected of you. There’s a mild compulsion charm on the dress. It’ll make things a bit easier for you, as far as the other guests are concerned.”

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, keeping the dress and at arm’s length. She felt a hand under her chin lift her face up. She squirmed under Lucien’s stare.

 

“Do you like it?” he asked. 

 

“It’s very beautiful,” she admitted. “It’ll be the second time in nearly a month where I’ve had to dress up,” she laughed while she attempted to step back. The force of his grip stopped her. 

 

“I thought it would suit you.”

 

“The job or the dress?”

 

His lips quirked, and he let a small huff out. “Both.”

 

She laughed again, gliding back and folding the dress up to tuck under her arm. “You might have misjudged the job then,” she said, “Antoinetta would be better suited for a party. At least she’s personable. People like her.”

 

“And yet I chose this for you,” he told her, his voice edged. She jerked when he made to reach for her again. His hand stopped short, but clenched into a fist and dropped back to his side. “I think it would be a good exercise for you, and you do not have to worry about the victims being able to leave, so even if you do get sloppy, well, it’s not as if they could go anywhere.” 

 

She made a soft sound of agreement. “I should get some rest, before I have to leave for Skingrad,” she stammered. “Thank you. For the dress. And the job.”

 

He watched as she fluttered away, down the dim hallway, a pale wisp against a dark canvas, and he wondered at the warmth from her jaw lingering against his palm. 

 

 

* * *

When she reached the living quarters, only a small number of her family members were there. Unfortunately, this number included M’raaj-dar as well, along with Antoinetta Marie and Gogron. 

“Well now, you’ve certainly made a habit of collecting pretty baubles in your time here,” M’raaj-dar sneered at her, his eyes flickering between the garment and the necklace that still adorned her neck. 

 

Antonietta narrowed her eyes at the Khajiit and responded before Felicienne could, “She’s earned those, despite their...unconventionality.” 

 

The mage scoffed and his ears twitched, the fur on his crown raising. “She’s been here the least amount of time, and you see the way Lucien fawns over her. You yourself were just talking about her newest contract and complaining how it wasn’t fair that you didn’t receive it.”

 

Felicienne’s eyes shot over to the blonde, who only shrugged and mouthed a “sorry” and glared once again at M’raaj-dar. 

“It’s truly not that large of a concern,” Antoinetta began, when the mage held up his hand. 

 

“You’re always tip-toeing around her. Why? Because she’s Lucien’s pet?”

 

“Hey,” Felicienne interjected. “Quit talking about me like I’m not here. It’s not like I asked for it.”

 

“No, but you’re not going to bother yourself with rejecting your special treatment,” he snarled, tail lashing back and forth, his eyes once again falling on her pendant. Then he scoffed. “You might be Lucien’s whore, but at least it can be said that you’re an expensive one.”

 

Antoinetta went pale and Felicienne’s eyes widened. The dark-haired girl took a step back and sucked in a gasp before her face clouded and she shouted, “I am no whore. How can you say that to me? You don’t even know me.” Her breath began to hitch and she swallowed the bile that tried to fight its way up her throat. “You have no idea about anything regarding me. Why do you hate me so much? I’ve done everything I can for this Sanctuary.” Tears spilled down over her cheeks and she scrubbed them away with her sleeve, leaving red skin in its wake. 

 

“I told you before we do not need any outsiders right now. Especially sullen cocottes profiteering off of their pretty faces.”

 

“M’raaj-dar, that’s not alright,” the Orc finally stepped in, trying to de-escalate the confrontation that was unfolding before him while Antoinetta seemed, for once, at a loss for words as she watched her young friend openly begin to weep. Sadly, the shouting had drawn the attention of those outside the quarters, including Lucien and Vicente, who barged into the room, both of their faces thunderous. 

“What is going on in here?” Lucien demanded, folding his arms in front of him as he surveyed the room. M’raaj-dar looked startled, but angry, his ears pressed back against his head, and Felicienne turned her face from the two men and ran her arm across it before turning back and revealing glassy eyes and scarlet cheeks. Antoinetta and Gogron shuffled in their spots, not looking at anyone in particular. 

 

“Nothing,” the brunette muttered, her voice thick. “M’raaj-dar and I were just debating something.” 

 

“Is that right?” Vicente questioned, looking towards Gogron and Antoinetta. 

 

“It is,” Felicienne insisted, before Antoinetta could say anything. “Nothing to worry about.” She sniffled. “It just got a little heated. That’s all.”

 

“I don’t think I have to remind you that there is to be no fighting amongst yourselves,” Lucien bit out. “You are to respect each other,” he said. “No exceptions,” he added, glancing at the Khajiit. The mage sneered and went to leave the room, only to have Lucien grab his arm, and he winced as the grip on his bicep tightened. “No exceptions, M’raaj-dar,” Lucien said, softly this time,. “Do not test me.” M’raaj-dar nodded.

 

“Understood, Speaker.” He looked back towards the younger Breton before sweeping through the door. 

 

“I trust that’s enough excitement for you all,” Vicente said, breaking the still atmosphere surrounding the remaining family members. 

 

“I’m going to go to sleep,” Felicienne announced, turning towards her bed, not even glancing at anybody else, and shrugging Antoinetta’s hand off of her arm as the other woman tried to hug her. “I have a long trip tomorrow,” she mumbled to the blonde, ignoring the woman’s frown, before she sat on her bed until everyone else either left or followed her lead. Only then did she slip into her sleep shirt and crawl under the covers. 

 

Much later, after the torches were extinguished and the sounds of multiple deep breaths and soft snores filled the air, did Felicienne awaken to the bed dipping under the pressure of someone sitting near her. She jolted, but did not sit up, spying a shadow against the already black night. 

“What are you doing?” she whispered, voice rough with sleep, still unsure whether or not she was dreaming until a hand touched her cheek. “Lucien?” she questioned, blinking her eyes against the darkness. 

 

She never received an answer, and she headed out the next morning to Skingrad, Lucien already gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I've finally updated again. I'm terribly sorry that it's been so long, since I see I last updated back in June. If you keep up on my Tumblr, you kind of have an idea of what's been going on. Also, I was quite sick for a bit and spent some time in clinic and have just, in general, been incredibly busy. And, again, any mistakes in here are mine and mine alone. I try to catch everything but I'm notoriously awful at proofreading my own stuff.


	11. And Then There Were None

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Felicienne's Hymn to Arkay is not my own work.
> 
> I also want to put an additional warning in here: There is a VERY brief implication of attempted rape. It's not explicitly stated, but it's pretty obvious, and it's a recollection; it isn't actively happening in the chapter. I wouldn't even mention it, but I know it can be a sensitive topic and I don't want to surprise anyone. It IS important to the plot, as far as character development goes. I don't just put extraneous information for shock value in my writing, I promise.

Skingrad was as Felicienne remembered it a month prior, staggering and clean, and fresh baked goods clung to the air. Still, a prickling kept tugging at the base of her spine as she wrangled herself into her new--exorbitantly expensive--dress, and she felt the buzz from the charms placed on the garment slide along her skin. She would have to leave her room soon, if she wanted to get to Summitmist Manor before dark and establish herself with the other guests. If she learned nothing else over the course of her time in Cyrodiil, she learned that people were more likely to trust you if you approached them during the day. 

 

Or, at least if you didn’t come up to them in the dead of night.

 

The walk to the manor from West Weald Inn was relatively short, perhaps half an hour, but storm clouds gathered above on her way there and raindrops began to fall not a second after she came up to a large Nord who stood guard over the entryway. 

 

“So,” he rumbled, “the last guest has finally arrived. I’ll tell you what I told the others: you go in, I lock the door. You don’t get out until it’s over.” He looked over her and grinned. “Now, I’ll tell you what I didn’t tell everyone else. We have the same Mother, you and I. And she wants you to have this,” he held out a key for Felicienne to take. “It’s the key to the house,” he clarified. “I guess someone else has already filled you in on the details, so get on in there! Go, mingle! Socialize!” He laughed and gestured towards the door, and gave her a tiny bow. 

 

She grimaced and nodded, pocketed the key, and opened the door. Woodsmoke permeated the sprawling foyer that lay beyond the threshold and a small, elderly woman stood just on the other side of the door. Warmth began to soak into Felicienne’s velvet garments, melting into her cooled flesh. The woman smiled upon seeing the younger girl and made her way over to her. 

 

“Hello my dear,” she greeted her. “So good that you finally arrived; we were all getting terribly impatient. We thought you’d never arrive,” she laughed, then cleared her throat. “At least now we can get started in earnest. I insisted we wait until the final guest, you, got here.”

 

Felicienne twitched. “That’s very kind of you,” she allowed.

 

The woman--Breton, Felicienne thought, noting the woman’s affected posh accent--preened and performed a shallow curtsey. “My name is Matilde Petit. From one of the oldest and most noble families in High Rock, I assure you. And what did you say your name was?”

 

“I didn’t yet,” Felicienne answered, rubbing her hands on the tops of her thighs, the velvet heating her palms. “But I’m Felicienne.” She didn’t curtsey. 

 

“That sounds like a Breton name,” Matilde sniffed and looked the younger Breton over.“And what is it you do, young lady? I can’t imagine you need the money. Not that I do, either,” she rushed, “after all, you’re dressed quite fine.”

 

“Actually,” she began, “I’m an assassin sent to kill you all,” she admitted while tittering, the sound high and tinny.

 

Matilde laughed, holding her hand up to her chest while tears sprang to the older woman’s eyes. “Oh, you’re a funny one. We need that around here; everyone is so serious.” After a moment, Matilde settled herself. “You might as well meet the others. Keep an eye out for the Dark Elf and the Nord,” she sniffed. “Dovesi and Nels, especially Nels. He told me the most off-color joke about an Argonian maid,” she prattled as they both made their way into the dining room. 

 

Felicienne rolled her eyes. Off-color jokes were the least of their worries now. Following the woman, the younger Breton wondered who it was these people pissed off for them to order such an elaborate contract from the Dark Brotherhood. Though, she reckoned, it could have been any number of people in Matilde’s case. She hadn’t know the woman for more than five minutes and was ready to strangle her.

 

“Where did you say you were from?” 

 

“I didn’t,” Felicienne repeated. “But I’m from High Rock.”

 

“Yes, but which part, my dear? Not that it matters of course.”

 

The brunette fidgeted. “Jehanna.”

 

Matilde hummed and glanced at the girl out of the corner of her eye. “Did you give your last name?”

 

“No, but it’s Sauveterre. My father was from Wayrest.”

 

“And your mother?”

 

The girl glared, but they were interrupted by the sound of crashing and rising voices, followed by a laugh coming from what Felicienne assumed to be the dining area. Another voice floated down into the foyer.

“So, Nord, tell me, if you find the gold, what are you going to do with it? Wait, let me guess, you’ll spend it on some sleazy whore and a nice new battleaxe? Am I right?   


“I’m going to open a tavern, if you must know. Not that I’d welcome your patronage. Pigs stink up the place,” a deeper voice responded. The Nord, Felicienne assumed. 

“I should have guessed. Of course a barbarian like you would spend a fortune on a barrel of mead and ale. How pathetic.”

 

“Should we stop them?” Felicienne asked the older woman. 

 

“Oh, Neville can take care of himself,” Matilde tittered. 

 

“That’s not exactly what I asked,” she replied, then winced and rubbed the back of her neck. 

 

“They’ve been arguing off and on since they arrived. It’s really best to stay out of the way, especially with how volatile that Nord is.”

 

Felicienne raised her eyebrow, but said nothing. A Redguard came storming out a moment later, followed by another laugh trailing behind him. She looked at Matilde and smirked. “They must have resolved it on their own.”

 

A large Nord stepped into the hallway and glanced at Felicienne. “You must be the one we were waiting for. Finally! Took you long enough.”

 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well, you know. The roads,” she replied. 

 

He let out a chuckle. “Don’t I know it. All the septims the Empire charges in taxes and they still can’t maintain their roads.”

 

She nodded and looked around the room. The house was quite beautiful, more fine than many of the homes she’d been in before, with sumptuous decor and reinforced doors and windows. It’d be difficult for anyone to get out if they didn’t have the proper means to do so.  She drifted into the dining room, Matilde following behind her. 

 

Felicienne wondered if the old woman thought she would try to steal anything. 

 

She spotted a young Imperial and Dunmer conversing with each other. They stopped when the Imperial glanced up and saw Felicienne standing around. Matilde scoffed and Felicienne thought she heard her say something about Dovesi’s scheming for Primo’s--whom Felicienne assumed was the Imperial--family money.

 

“Oh finally,” the Imperial said, rolling his eyes. “I thought we were going to have to wait forever. 

 

“Yeah, sorry to hold everything up,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Know it must’ve been terribly inconvenient for you all.”

 

He sniffed in response and turned back to his Dunmer companion, who giggled and flushed as he did so. 

 

Felicienne pinched the bridge of her nose. Just what she wanted to deal with. Between him and Matilde, she’d have her hands full. Or at least a rapidly diminishing pool of patience. Why did Lucien think she could handle this sort of job? Antoinetta would have been the smarter choice. People tended to like her, at least. 

 

She was beginning to believe Lucien wasn’t as sharp as the others thought. Then giggled to herself.

 

The girl looked out the window, where the sky had already darkened, and sighed again, her shoulders slumping when she turned back towards the foyer to reach the staircase.

 

Matilde asked where she was going and Felicienne replied that, since it was getting late, she thought she might head on up to bed and start looking for the gold in the morning. She didn’t stay for Matilde’s response. 

 

* * *

 

The girl sat upright in bed, candlelight soaking into the floorboards and illuminating the droplets of sweat that clung to her forehead and lip while her dark hair plastered itself to her cheeks and neck. She tried to shake off the sensations that woke her, bringing her arms around herself to stop the shivers that ran up and down her spine. She swallowed, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth, wine and cloves lingering on her breath as her teeth worried her bottom lip until they bled, and her brows furrowed while she grasped onto the fog that stuck to her head. 

 

She glanced around the room, and saw Dovesi’s chest rise and fall with her steady breathing. Despite the rest of the group’s initial plans to stay up to look for the phantom treasure, most had followed Felicienne’s example shortly after she crawled into bed.

 

However, it appeared now that she was cursed to be awake, though she supposed this could work in her favor. She could slit everyone’s throat while they slept and no one would suspect anything. Unless someone else woke up before she was finished and sounded the alarm. 

 

Perhaps it would be best to get each one of them alone. Especially as she seemed to be so distracted as of late. She sighed and laid back down, pressing her head down into her pillow and rubbing her hands over her face, peeling the stuck strands of her hair way from it. She squeezed the heel of her palms over her closed eyes and red and purples stars burst into her field of vision.

 

Not for the first time since taking--being thrust into--this job did she think Lucien’s--and the rest of the sanctuary’s--confidence had been misplaced. Not that she could point that out to any of them. She pulled the sheets around her, despite her tepid skin and the way the cloth clung to her limbs and tried to settle back into some semblance of sleep. 

 

She laid there until Magnus peaked over the Highlands and the sounds of the others scurrying around the downstairs rooms forced her to drag herself from the bed, her limbs sluggish and heavy, and watch herself as she got ready for the day she had coming.

* * *

 

Matilde and Dovesi’s deaths had been almost laughably easy, if Felicienne were prone to finding humor in her contracts, but they served to put the manor on edge and it was near impossible to get anyone alone. Primo and Nels were both taking Dovesi’s death particularly hard. Primo blamed himself and Nels had taken to drink. More than usual, anyway. Neville swore to find who was responsible, though Felicienne noticed the way his voice vibrated and the sweat the beaded around his temples. 

 

The Breton sat down next to Nels in the dining area while he poured himself another pint of ale. 

 

“You want some?” he slurred, holding the near-empty bottle up. “Unless you prefer that fancy wine from High Rock you lot seem to have an affinity for. Unfortunately you’ll just have to deal with this swill.”

 

She let a small grin grace her features. “Cyrodilic ale isn’t exactly palatable, is it? Though, I supposed I’ve developed a taste for the brandy.”

 

Nels scoffed. “When I get back to Skyrim, first thing I’m doing is getting black-out drunk on actual alcohol. If I get back to Skyrim.” He slumped back into his seat, leaving his stein on the table. 

 

“You can’t think like that,” she murmured. 

 

“It’s just like losing my daughter all over again. Dovesi looked so much like her,” he moaned, and then he turned to face the young girl. “I’m sorry; you don’t want to hear an old man get all soft on you, now do you.”

 

Felicienne bit her lip and looked away. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him.

 

“You ever lose anyone? You must have; you’re awful young to be travelling alone.”

 

“I’m older than I look,” she stated, glaring at nothing in particular. Then she sighed. “But yes. I lost my parents last year.”

 

“You close with them?”

 

She let out a chuckle and nodded. “Mostly with Papa. Mother and I argued often, but Papa mediated us. We must have driven him absolutely mad.”

 

“I’m sure he was glad to do it.”

 

“You don’t have to say that,” she laughed. “Our rows were extraordinary. But then Papa would take me with him, sometimes, when he had business outside of Jehanna. But not when he’d have to leave the province, or if he had to travel outside of our region. Said it was too dangerous to be travelling with such a pretty young girl. I think he just wanted the time away from Mother and I.” She grinned at him, but her expression fell when she saw Nels’ eyes growing glassy with tears.

 

“Your father was just trying to keep you safe. That’s all a father wants to do: keep his little girl safe. My daughter, my Olga, she--she was killed in a bandit raid. Your father was right to keep you as close to home as he could.”

 

She bit her lip, and felt a pinch and sting behind her eyes as they grew hot. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

 

“There’s no need to apologize. I would have done anything to keep my Olga safe, and I failed. And I’ll always regret that I failed.”

 

She looked down, feeling his gaze weigh around her and she took a deep breath, in and out, inhaling the scent of ale and bread and smoke. And salt. 

 

“What happened to your folks? You crossed quite the distance to be here.”

 

She swallowed and wrung her hands together. She was quiet for awhile, dragging her tongue across the roof of her mouth and behind her teeth. She felt Nels about to say something else when she broke her silence. “There was a raid. A group of Reachmen. Which I suppose would be almost funny.” She caught his furrowed brows and open mouth, and interjected, “My mother was from a tribe of Reachmen who’d assimilated into Jehanna. It had been awhile back. My grandparents’ parents, I think.” She shook her head. “I was in town when it happened. The guards closed the city gates and no one was allowed in or out. My home was outside of the gates. My mother was home, but I didn’t know Papa had come back at some point. He was supposed to be out on business. I was in town, mostly to see this one boy, Haldor Ragnavaldsson,” she blushed and grinned, and Nels laughed, complimenting her on her taste in young men. “I was also trying to pick up some cloth my mother had ordered. By the time we were allowed out you could see the smoke from the fires. I ran all the way back to my home. Or where it used to be. The entire thing had been set ablaze. It was so quiet. I had thought my mother must have gotten away; she’s tough woman. Scarier than any daedra I’ve ever seen.” 

 

She chuckled, and sniffed, the sound wet and thin. “It was the first time I’d ever seen a dead body,” she admitted, and then paused, taking another deep breath, “let alone half a dozen charred corpses. My mother must have given them quite the time, but you know, magicka doesn’t last forever and she must have exhausted herself. I hope she went quickly. And I didn’t even bring back the cloth, and I thought she would be so furious with me until I realized what happened. Papa though, he came back earlier than expected, and I found him but they’d,” she cut herself off and squeezed her eyes shut before she whispered, “they’d cut out his heart.” 

 

She stopped again and rubbed her hand over her face before continuing. “They do that, sometimes, you know. Something to take back to the hagravens, I guess.” She saw Nels shudder. “And he wasn’t nearly as badly burned as the other bodies. I think I’ll always remember the smell the most. Blood and burnt flesh. They take the hearts for their rituals. Conjuring whatever old magicks that they do. Unfortunately for me, one stayed behind. I was too...distracted and he ambushed me. I’d never been in a fight before, you understand, and I’m not exactly the most menacing girl you’d ever meet. He was so strong. I remember thinking that I never knew someone could be so strong as he wrestled me to the ground. I--I don’t think he wanted to kill me right away, or at all. I’m not sure. He was grabbing at me--I used to hear horror stories about Reachman raiding farms and carrying girls off to be their wives, if you can call it that. I pleaded with him to let me go, I think I started crying, but I think he liked that. I had never--and he was trying...And I was so scared. But more than that, I was furious. I’d never been so angry in my life. I wanted him dead. I needed him dead. I wanted to do things to him no normal person should want. I wanted him to suffer. We weren’t more than five feet away from my parents and this bastard was on top of me, trying to--and I had never… so I burned him. It was the first bit of destruction magic I learned from my mother. I had gotten quite good at it,” she smiled. “I’m a shit healer though; I’m better at destruction and illusion,” she laughed. “I burned him and I ran.”

 

She looked back up at Nels, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never spoken of this. I didn’t mean to unload all of that one you. I should have said it was a bandit raid and been done with it.” The girl worried her lip and glanced around the room. “By the Nine, I hope no one else overheard that. That’d be embarrassing.”

 

She felt a large hand clasp her shoulder. “Don’t you apologize. And the others are too busy either worrying about who’s out to get us or still trying to find the gold.” He squeezed her shoulder once more. “And for what it’s worth, I think your parents would be proud of you,” he told her, smiling, his eyes soft and his touch reminiscent. She fought leaning into it.

 

Felicienne sighed and turned her gaze beyond his shoulder to the window. “I don’t,” she confessed before falling silent once more.

 

* * *

 

It was late into the evening when Felicienne found herself standing over the cooling body of Nels, face down in a pool of his own blood as it spread out around his head. He never even saw it coming. She viewed the wound to his neck where she caught him off guard and wiped the blade of her dagger on her dress, feeling the liquid soak into the fabric. She saw herself walk out of the cellar and into the living room, looking around and observing the body of Neville, who Nels and struck down in an attempt to ferret out the killer. She let out a small laugh that splintered into different directions, bouncing off the stone walls and reverberating inside her skull. 

 

It was dark, and the flickering of the fire and lanterns would soon dim and extinguish themselves. Whatever heat there had been in the house dissolved in the cavernous rooms and shadowed nooks. She edged her way to the door, fishing out the small key she had received, and stepped out into the dampened air. 

 

* * *

 

“What’s the matter with you?” Antoinetta inquired. “You’ve been back for almost a week and you’ve hardly said a word.”

 

Felicienne nodded, Antoinetta’s words floating over but not sticking to her. “I’m just thinking.”

 

“I think you’re starting to worry Vicente and Ocheeva to be perfectly honest. Even M’raaj-dar has expressed some concern. In his way, of course.”

 

“You mean he cares what happens to an expensive whore like myself?” she murmured, a small smile aimed towards her blonde companion. 

 

“You won’t forget that comment any time soon, are you?”

 

“Should I?”

 

“You know,” Antoinetta began, “Lucien overheard some of that. He was,” she paused, sucking on her lower lip, “most displeased with M’raaj-dar’s words. He was not easy on him.”

 

“Great, as if he needed another reason to hate me,” the brunette groused, hugging herself and glaring at the floor.

 

“Actually, I think it’s done a bit of good. Kind of.”

 

Felicienne fixed the blonde with a stare, her lips pursed in a moue. 

 

“It was kind of you to try to keep it from Lucien and Vicente,” Antoinetta pointed out after a moment. “I think M’raaj-dar recognizes that.” At Felicienne’s silence, Antoinetta shifted her weight back and forth, fussing with the linens she was dressed in. She was unsure how to breach the mood she found her friend in. “Did something happen?”

 

“What? When?”

 

“On your contract.”

 

“No, not really. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just some things came up and it just...brought back some memories.”

 

“You know you can talk to me.”

 

“Yeah,” the brunette looked up at the other woman. “I know. Thank you. I’ll be fine.” At Antoinetta’s skepticism, she smiled. “I’ll tell you about it. Another time. Promise. I’ve just been feeling,” she stopped, eyes flitting towards the ceiling, “kind of funny. Like I’m not all here.” she gestured around her. “I’m not--anywhere, not over there--but I’m not quite here. I feel--it’s like--” She flushed. “I’m not making any sense.”

 

The blonde Breton frowned, but stepped up to the shorter girl and placed her hands on her shoulders, her palms a warm weight on the bones there. “Let’s go into town together. We’ll take a look at some of the jewelry shops and grab a pint. What do you say?”

 

“Can we go later? I...have something I need to do. This evening?”

 

Antoinetta smiled. “Of course; we’ll grab dinner as well, then.”

 

Felicienne nodded, stepping back, and let out a breath that hitched her shoulders and the blonde saw her shiver as she rubbed her upper arms with her palms. “I’ll be back, maybe in a couple hours.”

 

* * *

 

Her feet carried her back to the Chapel of Arkay in the mid-morning. Though not a pious woman by any means, she walked beyond the main altar towards Arkay’s smaller, demure pedestal. 

 

“We’re probably not on speaking terms, are we?” she questioned, turning her gaze to the stained-glass image of the Divine. “I can’t imagine you’d be thrilled to hear from me, but I don’t really know what to do. And I suppose it might be too late now, what with the daedra and Sithis and all that. I can’t imagine the bodies would be any good for necromancers. Let’s see if I remember the words to this; I certainly have spent enough time here. Never had to say it before.” She knelt down on the stone floor in front of the diminutive altar. “Hopefully it doesn’t matter that they’re not here.” She took a deep breath and began, haltingly, stumbling over the cadence.

 

“Come to me, Arkay, for without you, there is neither breath nor beginning, 

nor can any man live, love, or learn without the spark of your spirit.*

Arkay, to whom perfection and decrease belong.

Consumed by thee all forms that hourly die,

By thee restor'd, their former place supply;

The world immense in everlasting chains,

Propitious hear to holy prayers inclined;

The sacred rites benevolent attend,

And grant a blameless life, a blessed end.”**

 

She bit her lip and stared at the ground, her shoulders hunched and ice settling in her blood, and she started as heat licked across the back of her neck sending a thrill down her spine. She turned around, but was met with empty air and the few parishioners that normally visited the chapel. She got up, wincing when her blood began its sluggish recirculation in her legs and walked back towards the pews, and stared at the spot she vacated, watching herself the whole time. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *from the official verse of Arkay: http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Arkay  
> **from the Orphic Hymn to Kronos: http://www.heliodromion.gr/palaio/ymnoi/e_orfikos_hymnos_Kronos.htm
> 
>  
> 
> As always, reviews and critique are more than welcome; I appreciate hearing from everyone, and I really do try to get back to reviewers, even though sometimes it might take me a bit. I am so grateful for the support this little story has gotten.
> 
> Follow my on Tumblr for updates!  
> silencebrulant.tumblr.com


	12. Blood on the Sheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear lord, a somewhat consistent update. 
> 
> Once again, I want to thank everyone who has left kudos and/or comments. Seeing the notifications always brings a smile to my face.  
> Please excuse any mistakes; I do try so hard to edit carefully, but I'm sure some poke through. One day I'll have a beta. Until then, please bear with me.
> 
> To keep up with updates, and other ramblings from me, please check out my Tumblr at silencebrulant.tumblr.com

Antoinetta stared across the table at Felicienne, who had yet to take even a sip of her brandy and instead gazed into the amber liquid, the ripples from her breath distorting the surface. The blonde pushed her empty ale stein away and leaned back in her chair and let out a drawn out huff.

 

“I’m sorry,” the girl apologized. “I’m not being very good company, am I?”

 

“I just wish you’d talk to me. I know things have been,” she trailed off, looking down into her own drink and sighed once more, “difficult for you.” Felicienne laughed, but Antoinetta continued. “I’m worried about you. You look unwell, and I know you’ve been having difficulty sleeping. I hate to say this, but I wish you’d let someone from the chapel look you over.”

 

The blonde watched color bloom across her friend’s face while she squirmed in her seat. She mumbled, but Antoinetta, despite straining to hear, failed to pick out the words that escaped Felicienne’s mouth.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s really nothing they can help with. It’s my own fault.” Felicienne met Antoinetta’s gaze and continued. “I feel bad that I’m interrupting your sleep. I’m probably pissing a lot of people off,” she laughed

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Don’t lie,” she teased. “Any day now you all will petition me to stay in a tavern while I’m in town.”

 

Antoinetta rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. We would just have you stay above in the abandoned house.”

 

Felicienne let out a sharp bark of laughter, then sank down in her seat as a group of people the next table over turned to look at the two women. Antoinetta chuckled.

 

“I’ve just been restless.”

 

“So I’ve noticed. You’ve been like this since Bruma.”

 

Felicienne flushed and bit her lip and lowered her eyes back to her brandy. “I’ve just been stressed.”

 

“So I’ve heard,” Antoinetta told her, narrowing her own hazel eyes.

 

Felicienne grinned at her and shrugged.

 

“I just want to help. You’ll have to tell me sooner or later,” Antoinetta insisted.

 

The brunette quirked the corners of her lips and sighed. “No. No I don’t.” Antoinetta furrowed her brows and began to open her mouth when Felicienne pushed herself away from the table and stood up and grabbed Antoinetta’s abandoned cup, asking, “Why don’t you let the next round be on me?” and made her way to the publican before Antoinetta could get another word in.

 

“You know you can tell me anything,” Antoinetta tried to call out without drawing too much attention to their table. Felicienne just turned around briefly and winked at her, a grin spread across her face, still flushed.

 

* * *

 

The next day Felicienne found herself back in her bed, a steady throbbing behind her eyes and Antoinetta snoring next to her. The blonde must have fallen asleep before getting back to her own bed. She became aware of the weight across her stomach, noting the other Breton’s arm resting there, and she laid there for some time before her back began to cramp. Then she attempted to wriggle out of Antoinetta’s grasp. Felicienne sighed when her friend made a sound of protest but then turned around and burrowed deeper into the bed.

 

Her bare feet touched the floor, the cold sending a shock up her calves and into her spine. She looked around and the other beds had been made, and she could hear movement from the hallway that she assumed was probably Schemer or the guardian. Not getting properly dressed, she left the living chambers in her shift. It must have been later in the morning, and people were less likely to be around, and she didn’t feel like putting pants on quite yet. She stepped out in time to see the rat’s tail round the corner to go into the foyer, and followed his example. She stopped short when she saw the Speaker, clad in his dark robes, cowl pulled back, sitting in the reading nook.

 

“Oops, sorry,” she tittered, crossing her arms in front of her. “I didn’t really hear anyone, so I thought the place was empty,” she explained, her face hot. She kept the fact that she thought she wouldn’t see him again for some time to herself, assuming he might not appreciate her complete honesty. She made a note to get dressed as soon as she could get away and head into town to check in with Mariana about any post she might have received. She hadn’t heard from either Martin or Baurus in quite some time and it was beginning to worry her.

 

Her train of thought was interrupted by Lucien clearing his throat and gesturing for her to join him. She shuffled forward, dragging her feet until she reached him. “Can I...help you?” she asked.

 

He shook his head, and she settled in the chair next to him. He was silent for some time, fingers steepled and pressed in front of his face. She tugged on her chemise, bunching it in front of her and pushing the neckline back over her shoulders. She bounced her legs up and down, up and down, up and down on the balls of her feet watching the flickering of flamelight over the Imperial’s frown. Pressure built up in her chest and throat and mouth, and she parted her lips but only let out a whisper before swallowing again.

 

“I’m sorry, Sister,” he intoned. He relaxed his arms and leaned back in his seat. “I was lost in thought.”

 

“Anything I can help with?” she teased, her throat relaxing.

 

“Perhaps, but not yet.”

 

“Alright, that’s not at all vague and cryptic,” she sighed, bringing her knees up under her smock, fussing with the neckline to close it further.

 

He let out a soft chuckle and she smiled. “I didn’t know you’d be back here. And here I thought you didn’t come by all that often,” she admitted.

 

“Some things have come up that have required me to be here somewhat more frequently.”

 

“Is this something else that’s vague and cryptic?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“You know, for being a Speaker, you don’t really say anything,” she told him.

 

He smirked at her, and she rolled her eyes.

 

“The Sanctuary is mostly empty; you weren’t completely wrong.”

 

She frowned. “Is everyone on a contract?”

 

“Some of them. Others have different assignments. You needn’t worry about that.” He leaned forward towards her. “Is Antoinetta still here?”

 

“She’s sleeping off her ale,” she laughed. “We drank a little too much last night. I guess she crashed in my bed.”

 

Lucien tilted his head towards her with his brows raised, a small grin on his face.

 

“Not like that,” she exclaimed while her face glowed hot. “She just didn’t make it back to her own bed.” She looked down at her knees, drawing them closer to her body. The material of her nightwear felt too thin, too sheer, and she was too aware. She squirmed under his gaze and they fell into silence. “She takes up a lot of space,” she joked.

 

“You did nice work on the Summitmist job,” he told her. “Fafnir reported back. Said you had everything under control.”

 

She nodded and turned her face away from him. “It was kind of easy. No one thought it was me.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her cheek on them and staring at the corner, cotton filling her ears.  

 

“Do not be maudlin,” he scolded, narrowing his eyes at her hunched form. “They were destined for Sithis; you just expedited their demise.” He let out a rough breath. “You are a child of Sithis and the Night Mother. You would do well to remember that.”

 

Her legs slid out from under her garment and his eyes roved over her pale limbs as they revealed themselves. She still had not turned her gaze back to him, instead looking at some far off point that only she could see. Her neckline dipped down, almost too low, and he watched the play of light that highlighted the thinness of her chest, casting shadows underneath her clavicle and near-visible ribs.

 

She didn’t eat much. Not that he had seen in the time he spent in the sanctuary.

 

Perhaps it was no secret why she had to rely on stealth and speed. She was terribly weak.

 

He left his seat to crouch in front of her and placed his hand under her chin to force her to face him. She started at his touch, lips trembling and face pallid. Dark circles framed her wide, blue eyes and she shrank away from him. He tightened his grip and she let out a soft gasp and wrapped her arms around her form. He felt the slight tremors of her body through his hand and he scoffed. He leaned in closer to her and breathed in the notes of vanilla and cardamon that floated around her, warm and heavy.

 

“Are you surprised how easy it is?”

 

She stuttered. “What do you mean?”

 

“Killing someone. Extinguishing their existence. With a relatively simple action, you cause them to cease to be. Are you surprised how easy it is? You hold fates in your hands.”

 

She bit her lip, and he watched her mouth suffuse with color.

 

“Answer me, sweetheart.”

 

She nodded.

 

“Do you know why the Summitmist job went so well for you?”

 

“Because I’m sneaky?” she asked, her voice thin and watery.

 

“It’s because you are a beautiful girl. People want to trust you. There’s no way butter could even melt in your mouth, let alone the possibility that you could be such a vicious cutthroat.” He slid his hand up her jaw, up her cheek, and carded his fingers through her hair. “My vicious girl,” he murmured.

 

She went to shake her head, only for his grip to tighten again.

 

“But you are,” he told her. “I’ve seen you kill. I was there when you killed Rufio. You surprised me; I didn’t even think you would actually do it. I am not frequently surprised. I thought you too soft when we first met. Too sweet.” He paused, a salacious smile spreading across his face. “I’ll admit: I was disappointed that you weren’t a contract,” he admitted. “But you were enraged.” He hummed, shifting even closer to her. “All that blood, all of the wounds you left behind. I still remember how that blood looked on your skin. It was quite captivating.”

 

“I only stabbed him once,” she tried to argue.

 

“Is that what you think?” he asked her, smiling. “Darling girl, I almost thought I’d need to pull you off of him lest you draw too much attention from the people above.”

 

He grinned at her horrified expression and watched her throat bob as she swallowed again and again.

 

“He was a bad person,” she whimpered. “He did-- _things_ \--to that girl--tried to blame her--”

 

“And that’s what really got to you, is it not? Bad person,” and here he scoffed, “or not, you _enjoyed_ it.”

 

“He deserved it,” she insisted.

 

“Is that what it’s going to take for you to relish in this? Whether or not they ‘deserve’ what happens to them?” He loosened his grasp and stroked her hair. “They all deserve it,” he said. “Every single one of them. Their souls belong to Sithis. And consider, if you need to, why would anyone go to such lengths to commission our Family. You know the ritual.”

 

He paused, bringing his hand back to her cheek, rubbing his knuckles along the soft flesh there. “No one is innocent. In the end, we’re all destined for the Dread Father. I’m sure you’ve seen enough of Man and Mer’s darkness to know that. Don’t look so surprised,” he admonished, gazing into her face. “There’s a sadness to you, which I imagine works to your benefit in our line of work. Such a sad, little girl. Makes people protective of you. Look what you’ve done to Antoinetta,” he chuckled. “She’s taken quite the shine to you, speaks on your behalf. Even though she’s nearly mad with jealousy. It’s not her fault, of course.”

 

“Please stop,” she pleaded, but remained still as his hand continued stroking her.

 

“You know it’s true, and you know that there’s a part of you, even if it’s deep, deep down inside of you, that enjoys that. Relishes in it, perhaps. Maybe you even desire it, enough to seek it out.”

 

She shook her head, her breaths coming in shallow gasps and he watched her skin twitch and the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end. He drew his hand down again, cupping the back of her neck where it stayed, his thumb drawing small circles at the spot just under the joint of her jaw. She shivered, and he moved even closer.

 

“You know, we’re alone,” he reminded her.

 

“Antoinetta--”

 

“Antoinetta will likely be out for several more hours. I’ve seen how she is after a night of drinking.” He brought his other hand to her shoulder and ran it across her collarbone, letting it hover above those exposed ribs, the skin there glowing in the faint light.

 

“Please don’t hurt me,” she stammered, eyes shimmering. “Please, please don’t hurt me.” Her voice broke on her last syllable.

 

His expression grew thunderous; his jaw ticked as he clenched it, and she let out a soft whine. He grasped her shoulder, fingers digging in, the bones there grinding against each other. She’d bruise; she bruised so easily. He thought she must have lived quite the easy life before she came to Cyrodiil. She bit her lip again, and he released her shoulder and pried the flesh from beneath her teeth.

 

She continued to look at him as he brought both hands to her cheeks and clutched them and pulled her inwards and pressed her mouth against his, ignoring her slight resistance as he let one of his hands wander down to her chemise and began to slip it over her shoulder as he tried to coax her mouth open with his tongue. Slowly, she let him in with a soft sigh and that sweetened-spice aroma spread across the surface of his face. He pushed in deeper while his other hand joined the first in slipping down her shift. He pulled back, leaving barely inches between them. “My sweet, vicious girl,” he murmured, and his hands slid to the tie still holding together the garment. He pressed his cheek against hers and he inhaled that same sugared fragrance, his stubble catching on the skin there, and he murmured into her ear.“The things I’m going to do to you.” He chuckled. “Eventually you’ll want me to hurt you.” He felt her breath hitch and he plunged back into her parted lips, working the ribbon with his fingers and he grinned against her mouth as the ties succumbed to him before tracing her lips with his tongue.

 

Her slim hands, shaking, came up to his chest, just resting against him instead of pushing him away.

 

But she started at the sound of a door creaking, then slamming shut.

 

“Felicienne?” she heard drift down the hallway.  

 

The girl jumped back from the Speaker, nearly bouncing off the back of the chair and looked away from Lucien’s face. He stood and straightened his robes while Felicienne tried to right her nightgown and smooth her hair before she leapt up and made her way to the hall, stammering that she needed to get dressed and go into town to check the post as Antoinetta Marie arrived in the foyer.

 

Looking back at the younger Breton and back to Lucien, Antoinetta frowned before she asked, “Is--is everything alright?”

 

“Everything is fine,” he responded, tone clipped before he took in a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. His tongue darted out, licking his lips, chasing that sweetness--like moon sugar, he decided--while he could still remember it. “I was just discussing something with Felicienne,” he told the woman before he turned and headed towards Ocheeva’s office. “I will be away for some time,” he informed his blonde companion as he moved. “Let Felicienne know,” he stopped himself, frowning, “never mind. I will be in touch. Take care, my dear.”

 

Antoinetta nodded, still frowning, her eyes following the path Felicienne took.

 

* * *

 

Felicienne could have wept when Mariana told her she had received two notes from Bruma. As she sat at the bar, she looked at the sealed documents and saw that one was from Jauffre, asking--telling--her to return to Bruma to help the guards there shut an Oblivion Gate that opened too close to the city walls. She rather thought that was easier said than done. What surprised her was that Martin also sent a letter, which was unusual to receive one from both men at the same time.

 

She broke the seal and opened the note.

 

_Dear Felicienne,_

 

She snorted at the salutation and shook her head, smiling fondly.

 

 _I hope this letter finds you well; you’ve been gone for quite some time and I’ll admit_ _~~I’ve become quite worried~~ _ _we’ve all become quite worried for your safety. I know you can take care of yourself, but the lack of your presence here has been felt. I know Jauffre sent a letter regarding the Bruma situation, but I wanted to tell you that I’ve,_ and here Felicienne struggled to make out the ink splotches that lay before the next lines, _made little progress on the Mysterium Xarxes, but hopefully I’ll have more to tell you by the time you get back._ ~~_I miss talking with you at night_ ~~

 

 _Let me get straight to my point, however: I have been concerned for you since that last night you were here. Please, do not think of me to be so forward, but I am worried about how much daedric magic you’ve been exposed to during this whole mess. It isn’t healthy. I regret sending you to retrieve a daedric artifact, now especially knowing that you have interacted with Sanguine. True, there are worse Princes (I am quite relieved you have not dealt with Molag Bal), but do not let that fool you._ _Sanguine can be just as dangerous as Bal._ _Perhaps even more so. I trust you know that; I say this more for my own benefit. He preys on the weaknesses of mortals, what they want, what they most desire. ~~More than anyone,~~ _ _~~I know what he can do to mortals~~ _ _Please just be careful, and let me know if anything is amiss. I will endeavor to help you; it’s the least I can do since I am the reason you have been put in this situation. I truly wish you had not needed to even hunt for these foul objects, or at the very least we could have sent someone else. I would have gladly gone in your stead, under different circumstances. As it is, I feel Jauffre would have some very strong opinions regarding that course of action._

 

~~_Regards_ ~~

 

~~_All the best_ ~~

 

~~_With_ ~~

 

_Your Friend,_

 

 _Martin_ _Septim_

 

She stuffed the letter into her pack, and disregarded the warm sensation that settled in her abdomen like honey-wine.

 

Or brandy.

 

Everything was fine. She’d handed over that damned Rose to Martin and trusted that he would take care of it. Anything else that might have happened was of no consequence.

 

* * *

 

Martin felt an insistent throbbing behind his eyes as he muddled through the script contained within Dagon’s unholy book. He sighed, snapped the pages shut, and pushed the tome away from him as he leaned back into his seat at the table. The fire in the hearth crackled behind him and the sounds of armored feet echoed in the vestibule as the Blades on duty changed switched for the evening. The Imperial rubbed the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes while he massaged the area.

 

He hadn’t made near the amount of progress he’d hoped for over the last few weeks. It seemed almost a waste considering the ordeal Felicienne had undergone to procuring such a dangerous item, especially as it was one he was intimately familiar with. That didn’t truly have a bearing on the actual translation process, but it still seemed to him that it should have given an edge.

 

Jauffre told him he was being too hard on himself. But what else could he do while he was holed up in Cloud Ruler? Everyone else did all the leg work; he really had nothing else to do, and yet he could not manage to complete the one task that he had.

 

He sighed and rubbed his palm over his face before brushing his hair away and looking up towards the vaulted ceiling. It had been several days since both Jauffre and himself sent letters to Cheydinhal, but neither of them received any word back from Felicienne. Though not uncommon if she were on her way back, it still unsettled him to think of her travelling alone with all of the Oblivion Gates that were sprouting up more and more frequently as the weeks dragged on. He wished she was travelling with someone. Preferably, a man. A large one.

 

He laughed to himself. Really, she had shown she can take care of herself plenty by now. He’d had his doubts upon their first meeting--she was so young--but now he had no such reservations regarding her capabilities. Though her extraordinary mule-headedness was another story. That alone was cause for concern. Perhaps he could convince her this time to at least let him give her a once over, for his peace of mind if nothing else. Spending so much time around daedric magic was not healthy for mortals.

 

Maybe he could try to appeal to her sense of responsibility.

 

He scoffed as soon as the thought popped into his head.

 

The door creaking open broke the repetition of the ambient noise in the temple, and he opened his eyes to see who was entering the building. Both Jauffre and Felicienne stumbled in--Jauffre supporting the girl, who looked rather worse for wear--and Martin jumped out of his seat and made his way over to the pair. His nose twitched as the acrid aroma that they had all come to associate with the Deadlands assailed him. Char and sulphur.

 

Kvatch.

 

Shaking his head, he asked “Is everything alright?” He took Felicienne’s other arm and placing it over his shoulder. Jauffre let her be transferred over to the Imperial, despite the brunette’s protests that she could walk just fine, and they walked over to the table Martin had vacated. Now that she was nearer to him, he detected something sweeter, something that clung to her, and he had to stop himself from inhaling more deeply.

 

“I apologize for not informing you of her return and what not, Your Majesty, but time was of the utmost importance,” Jauffre told Martin, breaking him out of his line of thought.

 

Felicienne extricated herself from Martin and sat down on one of the seats. “We had to close the Oblivion Gate you all wrote to me about. Figured I might as well do it as soon as I got back,” she said.

 

Martin took a long look at her, soot veiling parts of her face, a couple dark bruises along her jaw and cheekbone, as well as a few scrapes here and there, but nothing terribly worrisome.

 

“Why didn’t you both come back here first? You should have rested,” he admonished, taking a seat next to her.

 

“That’s what I told her,” Jauffre stated. The older Breton crossed his arms in front of his chest and tsked at the girl.

 

“I got back early this morning,” she whined. “I stayed at a lodge in town for a couple hours to get some sleep; Captain Burd had already been waiting on me long enough, don’t you think?” Martin watched her look down at her hands fiddling with the end of the dark leather armor she had taken to wearing in the last couple months.

 

He didn’t ask her about it.

 

He looked to Jauffre who only shrugged and stated, “I needed to stay near the gate in case anything else came out. Fortunately, it was quiet.”

 

“And at least now they know how to close the damn things. Makes my life a little bit easier,” she laughed, which turned into a cough. “Sorry,” she said. “I think I inhaled too much smoke.”

 

“Do you need any healing?” Martin questioned.

 

She shook her head. “No, I just need to kind of take it easy for a bit. I mean, I know there’s fate of the world stuff happening, but can I not get sent on whatever errand is going to take me to the other side of Cyrodiil for a few days at least?”

 

Martin chuckled. “Of course. I still haven’t discovered the other ingredients we need to reach Camoran’s Paradise, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

 

“Oh good,” she said, grinning to him.

 

Martin glanced back to Jauffre then to the door and back, clearing his throat. Jauffre sighed and let out a small chuckle.

 

“I’ll be in the barracks,” the Grand Master announced to Martin. “I’ll update the men on the situation at hand.” He turned back to Felicienne and clasped her shoulder. “And you feel better.” He turned and walked away.

 

“I’m just tired,” she called out after him. “I’m fine.”

 

Martin laughed and she scowled at him. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

 

“I’m sure you are. But please, if only to appease me, at least let me look you over. Or let someone escort you to the chapel in town.”

 

“I really don’t need it, Martin,” she grumbled.

 

“You know, I could always order you.”

 

“I swear to Akatosh, Martin--”

 

“I won’t, I won’t,” he said, holding his hands up, palms towards the girl. “I do wish you’d at least consider it.”

 

“I already have,” she insisted. “I’m not going. I promise I’m fine.”

 

He sighed. “I know there isn’t any point in arguing with you.”

 

“There really isn’t. You know I’m going to get my way one way or another,” she said. She then leaned forward and placed her hand on his arm, the cold seeping into the material of his sleeve. “But thank you for your concern. And the letter.” He shivered.

 

“I am truly concerned for you. You were quite,” he frowned, glancing to the ground before continuing, “rattled the last time you were here, when you dropped off that staff.” He took his free hand and dragged it through his hair and let out a sigh that felt like it came from the soles of his feet. “You must be honest with me,” he started, pinning her with his eyes, “did anything else happen? Was the prank the only thing Sanguine wanted you to do? No other bargains?”

 

He started when she ripped her hand away from him, the sudden absence of chill a shock to his arm. When she jumped up out of her seat, he went to settle her but she knocked his hand away.

 

“I told you before: that was it. I went to Leyawiin, cast a spell, ran like Dagon’s Dremora were after me, and then he awarded me the Rose. You saw the article about the countess’ party yourself. That was it,” she insisted. Her arms were crossed in front of her and her face flushed  with exertion.

 

“Alright, I’m sorry. I’m not doubting you, but--just--if anything else happened, or you remember anything else, you know you can tell me, right?”

 

She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut and nodded, her dark hair falling over her face. He stood and brushed it away.

 

“Did you say what you were planning on doing with the Rose?”

 

“What? No, no I didn’t. Why?”

 

He shook his head. “Daedra Lords, generally, do not like their ‘gifts’ to be, er, squandered or...unappreciated.”

 

“Oh, well, you might have told me that before you sent me off to do that exact thing,” she huffed, no real heat to her voice. “I mean, I imagine by now He’d let me know if He was pissed.”

 

Martin nodded, but said nothing. He was quiet for a bit, his head tilting back and forth before he let out another deep sigh. “Sanguine isn’t overly concerned with collecting the souls of mortals,” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“So everything’s fine, and we have nothing to worry about. And I can go to bed,” she declared, already beginning to walk away.

 

“Where are you sleeping?”

 

“Um, well, the barracks.”

 

“Oh, of course, just, if you need a better bed or anything--”

 

“And put you with the soldiers again? Jauffre would kill me, Hero of Kvatch or not.”

 

“I suppose,” he started, “but I know you need a decent night’s sleep--”

 

“The barracks aren’t that bad,” she teased, facing him again. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

 

He nodded, his face warming when he heard her laugh--likely at him and not with him--and he let himself smile. “Would you like to eat breakfast with me tomorrow morning?”

 

She furrowed her brow. “Don’t we all eat at the same time in the dining hall?”

 

“Well, yes, I just mean, we could dine somewhere else. I’m sure the kitchen wouldn’t mind if we took our meal in my rooms,” he stammered. “I mean, I know it’s late now, and you’ll want to sleep in--”

 

“No, it’s fine, I can’t really sleep in much anyway. Is everything alright?”

 

“Yes, I just--well--actually, I suppose I should let you go to bed.”

 

She looked at him, her blue eyes narrowed at him and a brow quirked. “Alright then,” she began, “have a good night.” Then she laughed and added, “Your Majesty.”

 

It wasn’t until much later, when Martin laid in bed--watching the play of moonlit shadows scurry across the backdrop of the ceiling--and that redolence he’d noticed earlier, underneath the stench of ash and decay, finally had a name as he breathed it in from the bedding around him.

 

Clover, he thought. Clover and wine.

  
  
  



	13. The Grey of Sun's Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, an early update! I'm trying to get back to publishing things on Thursdays and Fridays, instead of this weird Sunday habit I got into. I hope you all enjoy the chapter. Once again, thank you to everyone who's left comments and/or kudos on this story. It's kind of my baby, so it makes me happy to see other people might enjoy it too.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Martin questioned his companion as they dined in his rooms. 

 

Or, at least, one of them dined.

 

The brunette lifted her gaze from her plate and smiled. “I am,” she said. “I’m just not very hungry.”

 

“Is it not to your liking?”

 

“I’m just not a big eater in the morning. Don’t worry, I’m still eating it,” she gestured towards the eggs and bread in front of her. 

 

“You’re barely picking at it,” he frowned, watching her slim fingers hold their utensils, pushing the food around the plate but neglecting to pick it up.

 

“Sorry, father,” she teased. 

 

He snorted, setting his own fork down and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you sass me, young lady. I _am_ old enough to be your father.”

 

She scoffed at him, and he went to take a sip of water. “Maybe if you had me when you were really young,” she pointed out. “I’m almost twenty-five. Although,” the Breton trailed off, grinning at him, “you were a Sanguine worshipper. I suppose it could be possible.”

 

Martin started, choking on his water and stammering out a response. “I wasn’t that young when that started.”

 

Felicienne cackled.

 

“You’re an awful woman, you know that?”

 

“I’m told that I’m quite charming.”

 

“Whoever told you that lied.”

 

“I’m sure they did,” she agreed. After she took a bite of egg, she wiped her mouth and set the napkin in the plate and pushed it away from her. “I think that’s quite enough,” she said, then looked back at him. “Any exciting plans for the day?”

 

He frowned at her plate, but answered, “If by exciting you mean exasperating, then yes. I’m still working on the Xarxes.”

 

“Why don’t you go into town with me today?”

 

“I thought you needed to rest?”

 

“I do, but, I’ll get bored stuck here all day. And it’ll be for leisure; that’s restful. And I already feel a thousand times better than I did last night,” she insisted. “Besides, I haven’t truly gotten to spend much time here doing anything besides, well, fighting. And escorting lost princes. Or my attempts at research, since my Cyrodilic has gotten better,” she laughed, “and I’ve missed the snow and ice. Cyrodiil is way too warm in most regions.”

 

He sighed, looking at her face, with still visible bruising and her brows furrowed and lips turned down into a pout. “I don’t think Jauffre will be too pleased if we leave,” he tried.

 

“Pah,” she exhaled. “He won’t care if I leave. You mean he’ll be unhappy if you leave.” She quieted, and folded her arms in front of her. “I mean, if you really don’t want to, it’s completely fine. I can go alone. I just thought you might be tired of being cooped up in here too.”

 

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, considering her words. It had been quite some time since he had been able to just wander through town, not since the day of the attack on Kvatch. Had it been that long already? He sighed. 

 

“And I’ll be with you,” she interjected. “You’ll be completely safe,” the girl insisted. “We can even get you a cloak and you can hide yourself away that way.”

 

“Why don’t we talk to Jauffre about it?”

 

“Oh come on. You’re an adult. And the emperor. You tell him what to do.”

 

At his pointed look, she tittered. “Alright, maybe not. But you can strongly insist on your position,” she teased. 

 

Martin rolled his eyes but nodded his head. “Fine, fine, you’ve gotten your way. I’ll talk to Jauffre in a moment. Bruma should be safe enough, yes?”

 

“Last I checked it was.” She took a long drink of water before standing and heading towards the door. “I’m just going to get my things together. Find me when you’ve gotten everything sorted. We’ll leave then.”

 

 

 

 

Martin, clad in dark blue robes and a cloak that partially obscured his face--which Felicienne insisted wouldn’t be out of place since it was Bruma and Sun’s Dawn and the robes were perfect for cold weather--walked along the streets with the Breton, listening to the crunch of snow and ice under their boots. The crisp air stung his cheeks, and he noticed Felicienne rubbing her hands together, despite wearing leather clothes, and the way her skirts swished with each step she took. She tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. 

 

“Is Jehanna very much like this?” he asked her.

 

She nodded. “A bit. It’s colder, though. We’re very far north. But yes, it’s similar to Bruma. Except we have real weather. We’re a border town too, so we see a lot of different people. I lived outside of the city, with my family.”

 

“Real weather?” he asked. “And what does that mean?” he laughed.

 

“Cyrodiil doesn’t really have ‘weather,’” she said, raising her hands, first two fingers extended, and crooked them down. 

 

“We just had a snowstorm last week,” he defended.

 

She just scoffed, but tilted her head back and smiled at him. “Cyrodiil gets happy snow at worst. You want to see a real snowstorm, go to Jehanna. Or really anywhere northern in High Rock, especially near the coast. That’s angry snow. It builds character.”

 

“Will you go back?” he asked. “I mean, when this is through. Do you think you’ll go back?”

 

She stopped and turned to him, and opened her mouth, then paused. She shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “I don’t think so.” The girl sighed and began to move again. “I don’t think there’s really any place for me to go back to. Not there, anyway.”

 

He fell into step beside her, and offered his arm to her. She looked up at him, her brow raised, and then laughed and slid her hand under the crook of his elbow. 

 

“Such a gentleman,” she teased. “I can get around on my own, you know. Kind of been doing that this whole time.” 

 

“I’m well aware of that,” he assured her. He inhaled, the frosty air permeating his lungs and the herbal-sweet scent of Felicienne’s hair tickled his nose. “Perhaps this is for my sake, to help me alleviate my guilty conscience for sending you all around the province.”

 

“Oh just wait friend, if this is what you think is all you need to appease me for that you’re in for a rough time,” she informed him. 

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Alright, what about, when all this is over, I...appoint you to the court?”

 

She burst out laughing. “As what? Royal gopher? I don’t think I’m really qualified for any sort of official position.” 

 

“I’m sure I’d find something for you to do.”

 

“You would regret it,” she said, patting his arm with her free hand. “You’d have me around all the time. You’d never get any peace.”

 

“I don’t think that would be so terrible.”

 

“You say that because I’m not around very often. A few weeks with me would have you climbing the walls. You would get sick of me.”

 

“I could never get sick of you.” Heat bloomed across his face, and she snapped her head to him, face pallid and her eyes wide and mouth parted in a small ‘oh.’ His arm tensed, but she continued to hold it as they came upon the general goods store. 

 

“Spoken like someone who’s never had me around for long,” she sang, looking away. 

 

Martin sighed and shook his head. He asked if she wanted to go into the shop but she declined, saying she didn’t need anything; she just wanted to wander for a bit. The silence that followed hung like a cloud around them despite the shops being open and the chapel bell tolling, though she did not relinquish his arm. His skin began to prickle with the chill that was settling underneath the layers he wore, and saw that Felicienne had begun to shiver. 

 

“And here I thought you were used to the cold,” he chided her, smiling.

 

She scowled at him. “I didn’t really think about that when I dressed today. I’ve been staying in the south so much that I guess I sort of...forgot.” She trailed off, her eyes softening as she looked out over the grey horizon. “Martin?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you ever wish you were someone else, or somewhere else?”

 

“We all do, sometimes, don’t we?”

 

Felicienne nodded, almost pouting, and she stopped, the force of it causing Martin to stumble as she continued to hold his arm. He turned around to see the top of her head as it bent so she could stare at the snow-covered cobblestone. 

 

“Where would you go, if you could?”

 

“If I could? I’d go back home.”

 

“You just said--”

 

“You can’t ever go back home. Not really,” she told him, sighing. “You can go back to the location, of course, but you can’t truly be back home once you’ve left because it’s changed. Even if everything physical has stayed the same, which it hasn’t, it’s changed. Leaving made it different. You don’t notice things turning or decaying when you’re there, but once you’ve gone and try to come back it’s rather obvious. It won’t ever really be your home again.” Her shoulders slumped, just for a moment.

 

“It just feels wrong, doesn’t it?” she asked, the sound of her voice dissipating in the scrape of the towns’ folks’ steps against stone and ice. She tilted her head back up, eyes widened, and let out a soft exhalation, mouth twitching up at the corners. She looked to the side and then bit her lip. “Ignore me. I think I just need a long vacation after all of this.” Then she laughed and began to walk again, dragging Martin behind her. Her hand slipped from his elbow, down over his forearm and her fingers wrapped around his while she continued to lead him down the street. 

 

He gazed at their clasped, glove-covered hands, the gentle pressure of her small palm sent a jolt of heat up his wrist and he squeezed the appendage for a moment. The breeze picked up, tousling her hair and clover and spice pricked at him. 

 

“I wish we could leave the city walls,” she said, and then looked back at the Imperial. “But I think that’d be just a little too dangerous, don’t you think? What with all the Oblivion Gates and Mythic Dawn spies.” She winked at him. “Don’t want anything to happen to our only heir. Jauffre would kill me.”

 

“I imagine you’ll be able to leave the city soon enough,” he chuckled. “And I doubt he’d kill you.”

 

“I would have single-handedly destroyed the world. If I let you get killed, I mean.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Also, I’d probably miss seeing you around. I’ve grown quite fond of you, despite your behavior towards me when we first met.”

 

“Well, pardon me, my lady, but I had just watched my home be destroyed,” he informed her, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“That was hardly my fault.”

 

He sighed and rolled his eyes. 

 

“Martin?” he heard her ask. She’d stopped again, much less suddenly this time, and he came to a rest. She bit her lip and looked off to the side, scattered sunlight catching her hair and rosiness from the frosted air dusted across her cheeks and nose. Her breath created little clouds in the air that floated up and dissipated around her face. The light highlighted the shadows that lay under her eyes, and he thought that she still was not sleeping as she should be. 

She repeated his name, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I was distracted.”

 

Felicienne hummed and nodded. She dropped his hand.

 

“Is there something wrong?” he asked her, frowning. Keeping up with her shifts of mood was taxing, at the best of times. Effervescent and carefree one moment, and then brooding and sullen in the next minute, with very little warning. 

 

“Will we still be friends after this?” she asked. He saw her worry her lip more, and cross her arms over her body. “I know we were playing before, but...I would like if we stayed friends quite a bit.”

 

“What is going on?” he murmured. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

 

She laughed, just two short exhales that disappeared into the late morning, and she shook her head. “Never mind me. I’m just being silly. I’m going to be the Royal Gopher, after all. There won’t be anything in Tamriel I can’t find for the Empire,” she teased.  “I’m sorry I dragged you out all this way. We haven’t even gone into a shop yet. There just isn’t really anything I need, or want, to buy. I just wanted to get outside for a bit.”

 

“You know what? Me too,” he laughed. “How do you think I feel? I’ve been holed up in Cloud Ruler for months, and before that the Temple of Akatosh.”

 

“True. You really should be thanking me.”

 

“You just apologized for inconveniencing me.”

 

“But that was before I knew you wanted to be inconvenienced. I thought you were playing nanny out of altruism. Now I know you were just being selfish.”

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”

 

“My mother, mostly.”

 

* * *

 

Felicienne laid on her bedroll later in the evening, having spent most of the day out and about in town. Martin complained only once that he really should be getting back to his research, but she had insisted that the apocalypse was not getting any closer since he was safe. He’d seemed skeptical, but she just smiled and suggested they at least stay out another hour. The Imperial agreed, but scowled at her for a moment before doing so. They ducked into a tavern for a quick bite before they left the city, and had been informed by the innkeeper a note had come for someone fitting her description. She read the note, saw it was from Ocheeva, and had deflated, despite Martin’s attempts to inquire into the situation and she waved off his concern, disappointed she’d have to return to Cheydinhal. It sounded important; she doubted the Sanctuary Mother would send for her otherwise.

 

Now, she just lay on her back, staring up at the rafters of the barracks and listening to the soldier’s snoring. She should have just checked into an inn, but she wanted to make sure Martin got back to Cloud Ruler in one piece, even though he told her he didn’t need a bodyguard. It wasn’t that she didn’t think he couldn’t keep himself safe, but Jauffre would have her head for being so reckless, and she had a feeling he was just coming around to liking her. 

 

At least a bit. 

 

She breathed in, the scent of pinewood and smoke filling her nostrils, then exhaled, sweetness and musk sliding against her tongue and mingling with her breath. She licked her lips, chasing it away and shutting her eyes against the tugging that pulled at the base of her skull. The girl shivered, the pulse traveling down her spine and back up again, settling in her stomach. She let out a shuddering breath, biting her lip, mindful of the other people present. Pins and needles ran up and down her arms, tickling the fine hairs there causing them to stand on end. She thought of Lucien, and shook her head, roses blooming on her face in the darkness. She flexed her feet and wiggled her toes as the same sensation crept across her thighs and calves. Everything felt too small, too tight, and she was burning. She wriggled in her bedroll, cringing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her body. A tickle made itself known, dragging down her sternum, her stomach, her abdomen until she shot up in the pallet and hugged her knees to her chest, the crawling feeling diminishing, but not relinquishing her. She peered out of the window near the ceiling. Snow had begun to fall while fingers crept up her back, a ghost of a touch, and she flinched away from it. 

 

She idly wondered if Cloud Ruler was haunted, but no one else seemed to notice anything, and if she were honest with herself--which found it harder and harder to do--that wouldn’t explain why it happened in other places, though it was more pronounced here. 

 

Again, her thoughts turned to Lucien and she pulled her knees up to her chest, her stomach clenching around the fire that had settled in her pelvis and she felt the phantom touch become more insistent. 

This time, unmindful of her sleeping companions, she started out of bed, clad in her linens, and made her way to the main room. 

 

When she arrived in the foyer, she saw Martin sitting in his usual spot, complete with open Mysterium Xarxes among other tomes. 

 

She tried to pull the hem of her chemise down, cursing her impatience. 

 

“I thought everyone would be in bed,” she said when he looked up. 

 

He gave her a smile. “I thought I’d try to work on this some more. Make myself useful.”

 

Felicienne meandered over to the table and plopped herself down on one of the chairs, her legs protesting against the cool wood. She leaned back against it, letting it soothe her body. 

 

“I’d offer to help, but...I’d probably be more of a hindrance,” she said. 

 

“You should be in bed, anyway,” he chastised. 

 

She shrugged. “I can’t sleep.”

 

“But you’re heading out tomorrow. You need the rest.”

 

She chuckled. “Tell my body that; it’s the one that can’t settle down.” She sighed, laying her head on the table. “I’ll have to see if I can catch any caravans on the way out of town.” She groaned, rolling her head so her face was pressed against the wood. “I’m spending so much gold for their compensation, but it’s faster than traveling by foot.”

 

“Why don’t you take that horse you rode up here on from Chorrol?”

 

“Well, it’s not really mine, is it?” her muffled voice said. “Besides, the caravans are more comfortable,” she admitted. “I was never very good at riding a horse. My father was, but I always complained,”she laughed. 

 

“You miss your father,” Martin observed. “You’ve mentioned him a few times since I’ve known you.”

 

She hummed. “I miss my mother too, of course. I was just closer to Papa.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“They died. Not much more to tell.”

 

“I know that, but...did you want to talk about it?”

 

She shook her head. “Not really, if you don’t mind. It was just rather violent, and I don’t want to bring it up.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he started, but she lifted her face to stare at him.

 

“I might tell you one day. “It’s just--it recently came up and it’s hard to think about.”

 

“I won’t pry anymore.”

 

She scoffed, offering him a smile. “You’re hardly prying. I think you’ve only asked maybe twice over the last few months. I’m not angry,” she assured him. “Your concern is appreciated.”

 

He looked away from her, staring down at the table, flitting over the various open anthologies and references. “I--I care for you. A great deal.”

 

“Oh, well,” she faltered, “I care about you too.” She flushed. “You’re one of my very few friends I’ve made since I left High Rock. I...value that. And you don’t seem to get tired of me talking.”

 

She saw him frown, his brows knitted together and lips turned down, but it cleared from his face and he smiled back to her. “I’m glad you count me as a friend.”

 

“I mean, I did save your life after all. Kind of forms a bit of a bond, wouldn’t you say?”

 

He chuckled. “Indeed.”

 

“So,” she began, grasping, “have any idea what the next item will be?” She gestured towards Dagon’s book. “Maybe I can nip it while I’m away.”

 

“Not yet, I’m afraid. Whatever it is, it’s going to be rather outstanding. The language used in this portion seems to indicate that, anyway. I don’t have it all translated yet.” He glanced back up to her. “If you’re still away, I’ll send a note. Are you going back to Cheydinhal?”

 

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

 

“You spend quite a bit of time there,” he pointed out. 

 

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “I have some business there.”

 

“I’ve gathered.” He looked at her from under his hair that had fallen over his eyes as he bent over the table again. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what it is another time as well.”

 

She winced. “Yes. Perhaps.” She swallowed down the bile that had begun to make its ascent up her esophagus. “It’s terribly boring,” she stammered. 

 

He sighed. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

 

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and she snapped it shut, glancing over Martin’s should and stared into the coals that still burned in the hearth, the chill of the wood underneath her feet sinking into her flesh and clawed up her limbs, the insistent heat flowing from her. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr for ramblings and excuses at silencebrulant.tumblr.com and watch me be an idiot. 
> 
> Standard disclaimer: All mistakes are mine, I don't have a beta, I edit my own stuff. Sometimes I miss things. But I try so hard. Once the story is finished, I'll go over everything in here with a fine tooth comb, just for proofreading. I won't change content.


	14. A Rose, Full Bloom

Felicienne stared at the Argonian woman, her brows nearly touching her hairline and her eyes wide. Her mouth inched its way towards the ground as she let out a sharp exhalation. “You want me to kill who?”

Ocheeva sighed and rubbed her temples. “Adamus Phillida.” She narrowed her eyes at the girl and crossed her arms, tapping her fingers against her elbows. “I don’t generally like to repeat myself, you know.”

“Didn’t you tell me I was to avoid him earlier?”

Ocheeva heaved another long breath, her posture softening, and she nodded. “I did, but circumstances have changed. Phillida has retired, and the Black Hand has decided that it’s high time he pays for the...inconvenience he has caused us during his career. And, to serve as a warning.”

“A warning?”

The other woman nodded. “You’ll need to send a message to Phillida’s replacement. We’re tired of the Imperial Legion meddling in our business, killing our family members. So you’ll need to do something to show that we’re serious.”

“Besides killing a retired captain?”

Ocheeva nodded. “Phillida wears a signet ring, from the Legion,” she started. “When he’s dead, you’ll need to take that ring, with his finger still in it,” she paused when she saw the Breton flinch, “and place it in the drawer of his successor’s desk. He’ll get the picture.”

“I’d imagine so,” Felicienne started, trailing off. “Kill Phillida, take his finger, plant it in a desk. Got it.” She nodded, her face paler than when she had arrived back to the sanctuary. “And where do I find him?”

“He will be living in Leyawiin. But he will no doubt have a bodyguard.” The Argonian then scoffed and her tail twitched. “That man knows the enemies he’s made with his meddling. Try not to get caught. Remember, we can’t help you if you are.” The older woman stopped, and walked over to her desk, opening the drawer and pulling out a long, thin box. She handed it to the girl. “Here, take this. The Black Hand has authorized its use.”

Felicienne opened the parcel to reveal a rather beautiful madder-hued arrow with intricate carvings, and she could feel the buzz of magicka humming through it. “What is this?” she asked, then laughed, “I mean, besides an arrow?” and she placed it back in its box and slipped it into her bag.

“It is called the Rose of Sithis. If you shoot Phillida with it, while he is unarmored, it will kill him instantly. Making your job significantly easier, I imagine.”

“Wait, you said he’s in Leyawiin?” Felicienne asked.

Ocheeva nodded. “Is that a problem?”  
  
“Well, not per se,” she stuttered. “I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re still pissed at me.” She scuffed the floor with her boot, wringing her hands in front of her, the knuckles going white. “I...may have caused a bit of a disturbance there.” And it’s been a pain in my ass ever since, she thought to herself as she scowled.

“I’m not even going to ask. You’d best get that straightened out.”

“Of course. I mean, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. A fine at most.” She laughed, eyes darting away from Ocheeva.

“See that you take care of it. And take care of Phillida.” Ocheeva exhaled, slow, her shoulders slumping. “I wouldn’t normally offer this sort of contract to someone who’s relatively inexperienced. But you’ve proven yourself quite capable.” The older woman then groaned, shaking her head. “I’ll admit, I had some doubts about Lucien’s faith in you, but it seems to have been well-placed. You’re an asset to this Sanctuary. I know you’ll carry this contract out to the letter.”

Felicienne swallowed, shifting back and forth and scuffing her boots on the floor. “This--this didn’t happen to come from Lucien, did it?”

“I won’t lie: he did recommend that you be given this. But that doesn’t change what I said. He spoke to both Vicente and me, and we both agreed that you would be able to handle this.”

The Breton huffed, feeling short of breath, and worried her lip. “I’m--I’m glad to know I have his confidence, then,” she attempted, keeping her face neutral. She fixed Ocheeva with her gaze. “But please, tell me. It’s,” she swallowed, “rather unusual for--for this kind of attention, isn’t it?”

Ocheeva leveled a cool stare at the girl--young woman--standing in front of her. “It’s not completely unheard of, for a Speaker to take such an interest in a family member.” And didn’t that just sound unsettling, Felicienne thought. The Argonian woman pressed on, “I’m not one to claim to know Lucien’s motives, but his judgment has never steered us wrong, and if he thinks you’re exceptional, then who am I to question him?”

The tether that had been holding Felicienne together finally unraveled. “You know that’s not what I mean,” she snapped, then clamped her hands over her mouth, and her eyes widened as they stared at the older woman. “I’m so sorry,” she rushed, but Ocheeva shook her head and held up a hand.

“Don’t be; I understand where you’re coming from. Lucien has been rather...intense where you’ve been concerned. But if--if you truly feel uncomfortable, know that you can speak with me. Honestly. What you say to me will go no further than this office. Not even to Lucien.”

Felicienne felt her eyes sting and grow clouded and she blinked rapidly to clear them, feeling water cling to her lashes. She inhaled, feeling a band around her chest loosen, if not dissolve completely. “I’m fine,” she whispered, glancing around the room looking anywhere but at the woman in front of her. “I appreciate your words, though. I’ll consider it.” She lifted her chin, giving a wan smile. “Thank you.”

Ocheeva gave her a curt nod and dismissed the girl, telling her that it would probably be best to leave sooner, rather than later, but she didn’t need to rush. Which Felicienne interpreted that as: You can stay for a couple days but you should really head out.

She was going to take advantage of the couple of days.

As she left Ocheeva’s office, she saw Mraaj-Dar heading down the hallway. She breathed in and exhaled through her mouth, the sound of it grabbing the mage’s attention. His tail twitched and he frowned, and lead settled in her stomach.

She sighed again, and shook her head. “Look,” she began, “I’m just leaving. I know you really seem to dislike me, and I’ll be out of your way in a moment. Can we just--just not do this?”

His ears drooped as he made his way over to her. “Actually, I wanted to speak with you,” he admitted.

“Why?” she questioned. “Did Antoinetta put you up to this?”

“Ah, no, though I admit she’s spoken to me, as has Lucien.” She saw his tail twitch again, and she winced.

“I did sort of hear about that. Nothing specific,” she clarified. “I wasn’t trying to get you into trouble.”

“Yes, I know that. You could have tried to rat me out to Lucien, what with the way he pampers you,” he sneered, but shook his head and his tail settled back down behind him. “But you didn’t. You tried to lie for me, which you are terrible at, but I appreciate the attempt. We have all been on edge lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. And--and I may have taken my frustration out on you, which was...a poor choice as you’ve done nothing to warrant my anger.” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled through his nose, the action causing his whiskers to shiver. “I have treated you unfairly during your time here. I would like to apologize to you.”

Felicienne’s eyes widened, her mouth a soft oh. “Wow, um, thank you. That--that means a lot, actually.” She crossed her arms over each other and rubbed her palms on her shoulders. He gave her a curt nod and kept walking towards Ocheeva’s office. Felicienne stared down the hall a few moments longer, before she too turned and walked away, to the direction of the living chambers.

Once again, both Telaendril and Gogron were gone, which was a shame because she had wanted to at least try to catch up with the Bosmer since she didn’t get to see her as often. She was away from the Sanctuary frequently. Felicienne thought it might be due to an assignment, as the elf came back around the same time every Sundas. She’d be back tomorrow.

And it seemed Antoinetta was out as well, though the younger Breton thought she’d heard that Mathieu was back in town, so the blonde must have been with him. Which was fine and well for her. Felicienne wanted the alone time, and she couldn’t very well have that if the sanctuary bustled with the whole family.

She pushed her way through the thick doors and made her way to her bed, bypassing the dining table and ignoring the apples and bread that had been set out, and flopped down onto the somewhat musty covers. She pulled the pillow over her head and lay still.

* * *

 

Failing light scattered across the floor, filtering in through the battered window panes of a nondescript room in Newlands Lodge and illuminated the two figures that laid sprawled under the covers of the single bed that dominated the chamber. Antoinetta’s blonde hair caught the sunlight as she turned over onto her side, facing away from her companion.

“Alright, out with it, woman,” Mathieu grumbled. When only silence met him, he groaned. “You’ve been out of sorts all day. Well,” he paused, smirking, “with the exception of the last hour, I suppose.” He laughed, but his face fell when the woman did not laugh along with him. “Seriously, what is going on?”

He turned over, pulling the blonde against him, pressing her back into his chest. He ran his hand up and down her arm, stroking the skin there, chuckling when he saw her shiver. He felt her sigh.

“It’s nothing, really,” she told him. She relaxed further into him and he rolled his eyes.

“Is it Lucien?” he grumbled. “I know how you feel about it, but is it really so much to ask that when we’re together, you--I don’t know--try not to think about him?”

She turned around, keeping his arm around her and she looked up into his face. “It’s not entirely about him. But--” she stopped and worried her lip. Her eyes flitted back and forth between Mathieu and the covers.

He huffed and he felt her tense beside him, but she offered no other words and he tightened his arm around her. “Antoinetta…”

“I can’t help it,” she whispered. “And I’m so angry with her, and I feel awful about it. I know it’s not her fault; he’s just--she’s pretty, and she’s young--”

“It’s not exactly like you’re old and haggard, darling. You know you’re rather lovely to look at,” he interrupted his companion.

She scoffed, but her grip on his forearm strengthened. “But she’s different to him,” she insisted. “The way he looks at her...He used to look at me that way. At least, I think it did.”

Mathieu exhaled, his breath disturbing the strands of blonde hair splayed over his chest. “You know I’ve known Lucien a long time. I think he dotes on her because she challenges him, Antoinetta.”

The blonde scoffed. “That’s certainly not true. She quite docile and, dare I say, almost submissive when he’s around; she is quite subdued around him.”

He chuckled. “That’s not really what I mean. As I said, I’ve known Lucien for a long time. Since I was practically a boy. You learn a lot about someone over the course of a decade.” His vision grew fuzzy as he looked off into the corner of the room they had rented during his stay in Cheydinhal. He felt his jaw clench as memories surfaced of the time he spent traveling with Lachance while the man trained him during his early days in the Dark Brotherhood. He knew, probably more than anyone, of what he was capable of, and he felt a tug in his stomach at the thought of someone like their newest “family” member being at the Imperial’s mercy, as he seemed to be almost entirely focused on her at the moment. “You--and don’t take this the wrong way--you’ve always sort of fawned over Lucien. Everyone could see it, dearest. He certainly could.”

“Are you saying I’m easy?” she questioned, her voice sharper than before.

“Of course not. But your love for him was obvious. Lucien has always enjoyed a challenge, of sorts. Contracts, recruits, bed-partners...anything, really. Likes to suss things out, break people down. He likes it, likes being able to reform people into things he wants, make them submit to him,” he paused, watching Antoinetta’s reaction. “I shudder to think what he might have been like before the Dark Brotherhood,” he joked, but frowned as he saw Antoinetta’s far-off gaze.

“And I don’t give that to him.”

“This isn’t a matter of what you can give him. Not truly. It’s not something you can fabricate,” he fell silent for a moment, “Felicienne and I have...spoken, in recent weeks. She seems--disinclined--to seek out his,” he stopped, glancing up at the ceiling and continued to rub her arm, “affections, as it were.” He felt Antoinetta nod against him. “She’s scared of him. I think you know that.”

“I don’t know what I can do, Mathieu. Something happened between the two of them a couple of weeks ago, and Lucien’s been distant ever since. He’s stopped by only once, and that was on official business.”

“What happened?”

“I--I don’t know for sure. Felicienne and I had been out drinking the night before, and I suppose I was still sleeping it off. But I walked in on the two of them.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Not--not quite like that,” she admitted. “I think I interrupted something. She looked so scared when she saw me. She tried to cover it up, but I know what I saw. Lucien was...irritated with me, to say the least.”

Mathieu scoffed, ignoring his companion’s scowl. “Well, from everything that’s happened, I think it’s fair to say he’s been trying to get her into bed with him for some time and he was finally making progress, too,” he chuckled. Then sighed. “Poor girl.”

“Me, or Felicienne?”

“Both, I think. She doesn’t really know what she’s gotten herself into.” Then, he shrugged. “Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s playing with him like he is her.”

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “She isn’t like that at all.”

“I find it odd you still feel the need to defend her.”

Antoinetta groaned. “I know. It’s rather pathetic. I--I know it isn’t her. I’m just so tired of feeling like this. It’s not just that he wants her, but he wants her to do well.”

“She has become his little pet project, hasn’t she?” he mused.

“I just wish I knew what to do. I want it to be the way it was,” she said.

“Before Felicienne?”

Antoinetta shut her eyes and nodded, and he held onto her.

“You know there isn’t anything you can do,” he whispered into her ear. “Lucien is the way he is.” He began to stroke her face. “I don’t think he wants someone who already loves him.”

“But why? And why her? It’s like she can’t wait to be away from him.”

Mathieu shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?”

“You’ve known him for so long, though.”

He repeated his actions. “I don’t know. Maybe someone killed his pet as a child. Perhaps he has mother issues. How in Oblivion am I supposed to know? Look at the bright side,” he continued. “Once he sleeps with her, once she succumbs to him, he’ll likely lose all interest in her.”

Antoinetta nodded, but kept her eyes closed, listening to the sound of Mathieu’s breathing in the otherwise silent room, and the thud-thudding of his heart tapping on his ribcage under her cheek.

* * *

The sound of water droplets dripping onto the stone floor echoed in the moss-covered walls deep within a fort that stood outside of the sprawling walls of Cheydinhal, and heavy footsteps followed behind, mirroring the splashes of water against rock.

Lucien paused in the middle of his sleeping chambers and ran his hands over his face and into his hair, disturbing the bound strands, freeing some of them from the tie that gathered them together. He then glanced at the piece of parchment perched atop his writing desk and released a breath that drew out over seconds.

Everything within the last couple of years had come down to this moment. Bitter heat coiled inside of him, twisting around his entrails and clawing its way around his lungs, radiating through his very bones. For weeks he’d been investigating his own sanctuary and negotiating with the other members of the Black Hand, but his pursuit yielded no fruit. The Black Hand extended their condolences, but this inevitability hurtled towards them and there was little that could be done to escape from it.

He walked over to his desk and stared down at the letter he had received earlier that day and ran his fingers over it, tracing the word “Purification” written in looping cursive on its surface. His jaw clenched and he exhaled through his nose in a sharp huff, turned, and resumed his pacing.

He should take care of the ritual himself. Cheydinhal was his sanctuary and he let a traitor flourish within it, unknowing or not, and he needed to be the one to rectify it. But still...an entire sanctuary. Completely wiped out. It was a substantial number of family members to lose. And not a minuscule amount of experience.

It would be awhile before they could replace that.

But the Sanctuary was tainted and had been for far too long. Drastic measures needed to be taken to ensure that they could move forward and recover from this. It was a regrettable course of action, but necessary.

He made his way over to his bed and sat down on it, leaning his back against the wall. He needed to do it soon, within the next couple of weeks, and his chest constricted as he considered when would work best. He’d worked with many of his family members here, and recruited a fair amount. He’d practically raised Ocheeva and Teinaava--with Vicente’s help, true--and it would be difficult to end things this way.

And it looked like he would fulfill his contract on Telaendril after all, he thought as a small, wry smirk twisted his mouth.

Still, it seemed such a waste. None of the members of Cheydinhal could possibly betray the Dark Brotherhood.

He thought of Antoinetta.

In fact, the only one who he may have thought could harbor such thoughts would truly be his little foreign-born Breton, but she clearly lacked both the stomach and seniority that this particular menace required. Besides, the girl adored Antoinetta. If nothing else, she would never do anything to harm her, directly or indirectly. She was almost irrationally loyal to the woman.

Sometimes, when he’d been a bit too far into his cups, he questioned what Antoinetta had done to deserve the girl’s devotion.

Though, now that he thought about it, this tragedy might provide him an opportunity to test the girl’s mettle. She was such a soft thing, after all. Surprising that she had done so well. And, it would provide him the opportunity to test her loyalty to the Dark Brotherhood.

To him.

This had only sped up the inevitable, and now Felicienne would have no other option but to carry out this task.

She should be in Leyawiin now and might be away from Cheydinhal for at least a week. The Purification could be held off for that long; he’d write to his associates and explain his reasoning. There should be no objection as Felicienne was too new for her to be involved in any wrongdoing. He could argue that she was the best fit for this, especially with how she had proven to be such an asset to their Cheydinhal family.

Besides, he needed a new Silencer.

* * *

 

 

She sat, perched on top of a home’s thatched roof and spied the older Imperial doing the backstroke in the small pond she’d overheard the man’s bodyguard discussing with the other soldiers in Leyawiin. The Breton had the string of her bow drawn back, rigid, Rose of Sithis held between her fingers and trained on the former Legionnaire. Her breath filled out her lungs and released in long, wispy tendrils that writhed in front of her, obscuring her vision.

Phillida swam, despite the chill, forwards and backward, spinning on occasion. Grey light bounced off of his wet skin and glimmered with the rippling water as his form broke through it. She watched him float, his eyes shut, and his young bodyguard standing a few feet away, with his back turned towards his charge. Phillida glided across the pond, his limbs meeting little resistance.

Felicienne sighed, a shiver passing down her spine and roving over her body. Electricity sparked across her skin and tickled down her extremities, and her wrist jerked the bow. She ducked, but emerged a second or two later to see no one had, apparently, noticed anything.

Life in town continued as it had before, and Phillida’s body continued to cut through the pool like a dorsal fin. The small waves lapped at the bank of the pond, the slapping drifting up even to her ears, and the water lilies and hyacinth swayed back and forth, back and forth, their leaves waving at those around them, before they succumbed to the water around them and their petals submerged for a few moments before bobbing back up.

She retrained her bow back onto him, pulled back the string, vibrations echoing down her forearm, the petals of the Rose focused on Phillida. She took in a breath, her body lifting and shoulders drawing back, her posture rigid, and slowly released it, her body deflating and her fingers relaxing.

The arrow soared through the air, catching Phillida on the neck, the green shimmer her only indication that the Rose had done its job, before crimson bloomed across the surface of the pond, and the hyacinth and lilies bobbed along with the motion. And then they sank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Update! Also, a notice: the rating will be changing from Mature to Explicit. With the way the story is going, a rating of E seems more appropriate.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at [https://silencebrulant.tumblr.com](https://www.tumblr.com)


	15. Nekyia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for this chapter:** Allusions to drug use, and some dub-con (related to the drug use). Otherwise, standard tags and warnings apply

Instead of going directly to the sanctuary, Felicienne stopped to check her post. She hadn’t been gone long, but didn’t see the need to hurry back now that Phillida was dead and the Brotherhood shouldn’t be dealing with any more issues with the Imperial Legion. She lingered at the bar while Mariana fetched her mail, and Felicienne considered tipping a few septims to the women since she did put up with her delayed acquisition of post. She glanced up from where she was looking, at the woodgrain of the counter, and saw Mariana walk back towards her with a letter in hand. She accepted the parchment and fished out twenty gold from her purse and handed it to the flummoxed publican. Giving the other woman a small shrug, she smiled and walked to one of the tables farther from the populated bar.

 

She sat, underneath a window, and cut the note open with her dagger, the blade sliding underneath the wax seal and tore it away from the paper.

 

It looked like Martin finally deciphered the next component to unlock Camoran’s “Paradise.” He also wrote that she would be displeased to hear what it was, and to forgive him ahead of time.

 

Felicienne wondered if it really would be the blood of a Dibellan virgin.

 

She would have to head back to the sanctuary now, at least she would if she wanted to make it to Bruma in any sensible time frame. And to Martin.

 

Twilight spread over the city sky, purples and oranges blended together awash with twinkling stars. Masser and Secunda had yet to make an appearance when she stepped outside and headed towards the eastern gate, ducking behind the nearest house and hugging the wall until she came upon the well entrance for her “home.” When she stepped inside the common room, her hackles went up. Shrugging, she looked around the room and saw Telaendril and Gogron chatting to each other. They looked up at her, then turned back towards each other to resume their conversation.

 

The Breton frowned and as she came nearer to them, and their whispers died down until she passed, and then they reignited them.

 

Approaching Ocheeva’s office, Felicienne took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock, but Antoinetta Marie burst out through the doors, staring ahead, not sparing a glance at the startled girl before her. When Felicienne opened her mouth to call out to her blonde friend, the Argonian woman shook her head.

 

“Don’t worry about it, child, just come in. And close the door, if you don’t mind.”

 

She nodded, stepping inside the room, the door falling shut with a soft ‘snick’ and she launched into how she finished the contract and completed the extra step of cutting off Phillida’s finger, pointing out how gross that was, and she placed it back in his old desk in the Imperial City.

 

“Yes, yes, I heard,” Ocheeva cut in. “You have another job to do.”

 

The brunette looked up, brows and lips pursed. “Already? I just got back.”

 

“I know. It came in while you were away. Lucien was quite insistent you get this should you finish the Phillida job,” she held her hand out to Felicienne and presented her another note. “It’s sealed; only you and he will know the contents of it. This is...quite frankly, a matter of great importance. This seal,” she pointed to the wax insignia holding the vellum closed, “belongs to the Black Hand. The ruling body of the Dark Brotherhood. To receive a task from them is, well, it’s an honor.”

 

Felicienne looked at the yellowed letter and glanced back up at Ocheeva, bouncing on the balls of her feet and her free hand tugging at the hem of her shirt.

 

“It’s all right dear, you can go now.”

  


Felicienne sat on her bed, still staring at the letter in her hands, turning it over, and over, and over, and over until the sound of parchment scraping against flesh filled her ears and the scent of fine calf skin entwined with the dust and moss that clung to the sanctuary walls. Her fingers traced the wax, circling it once, twice, then back again before reaching back to her belt and unsheathing her dagger and, for the second time that day, she slid the blade under the seal and popped it off, the letter fluttering open.

 

_Felicienne,_

_You have served the Dark Brotherhood well in the short time you have been with us. With me. The rate of your successful advancement has been rather remarkable. But now the Black Hand itself has need of your services._

_You must proceed with all haste to my private refuge in the ruins of Fort Farragut, located in the forest northeast of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. When you arrive, we will discuss the nature of your special assignment._

_I cannot stress to you enough the importance of your swift arrival at Fort Farragut. There are unseen powers working to unravel the very fabric of the Dark Brotherhood. The Black Hand is counting on you to prevent this disaster. <u> _ _You must make this your one and only priority. </u> _

_Do not share the contents of this message with anyone at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, including Ocheeva or Antoinetta Marie, and make no mention of your journey to Fort Farragut._

 

_Regards,_

 

_Lucien Lachance_

 

* * *

 

 

She stood outside of a dilapidated fort a couple hours later, and heard the creaking of bones reverberating from the overgrown courtyard.

 

“Oh fuck this,” she whispered before walking towards one of the walls and hugging it while she scaled the perimeter of the building. Her movements stayed slow and soft, feet padding along the frosted grass and leaves. The sting of the evening air kissing her cheeks and nose and damp vegetation drifted through the air, not quite masking the scent of rot.

 

She came across a rotted tree trunk on the other side of the fort and, upon noticing its hollowness, she peered inside to spy what appeared to be a trap door. She squeezed into the opening and tried to lift the gate cover, cursing when it held. The Breton placed her hand on it, forehead creased, and her hand began to glow, blue light haloing her palm, and she felt the pop of tumblers falling into place until she heard the click of a lock giving way. She pried the door open and slipped down and into darkness

  
  
  


 

And she landed right in the failing light of a sparse bedroom. The impact her feet made with the floor caused her to misstep and stumble before she righted herself, and needles radiated up her shins, and she found herself face to face with her Speaker who looked up towards the small entrance and ladder, then back down to her and raised his eyebrows.

 

She shrugged.

 

He sighed and grasped her shoulders and he told her, “You’re a little too clever sometimes.”

 

The pressure from his hands weighed her down and pinned her feet to the stone ground. “I got your letter,” she blurted. “I mean,” she stammered, face pink and eyes big and downcast, “it sounded like it was urgent.” She kicked at the floor, her boots catching on the uneven surface.

 

He nodded. “It is. Did you tell anyone where you were going?”

 

She shook her head. “They just knew that something secretive was going on, but they didn’t ask me, and I didn’t volunteer any information, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

“I didn’t think you would,” he assured her, keeping his hands on her. “This is a delicate matter though, one that you will not be able to rely on your Brothers or Sisters for help.”

 

He peered at her face, all wide-eyed and cheeks blooming, her shoulders rising and falling in quick succession with her breath, he ran his hands down her back, and pulled her into him. He felt her raise her hands to his chest, but she did not push back, and he allowed her to keep that space between them.

 

“You need not fear,” he said, rubbing circles along her back, feeling her form tremble under his hands. “I need you to do something. Not only for me, but for the Black Hand and Dark Brotherhood. You know of the traitor we have been trying to root out. That time has come.”

 

She snapped her head up. “Who? Who is it?”

 

“We,” he sighed, “we still do not know. Not for sure. But the Cheydinhal Sanctuary has been tainted beyond salvaging. The Black Hand is invoking the Rite of Purification.”

 

Felicienne’s brows furrowed and she shook her head, mouth forming the last words he spoke. “What do you mean you don’t know who the traitor is?” she finally asked. “What’s the Purification? What do you need me for?”

 

“We have reason to believe that this traitor originated from Cheydinhal. From my Sanctuary. Everything we have looked at points back to Cheydinhal. So we must cleanse it.”

 

Her hands gripped his robes, her face morphing into a glare. “What does that mean? Stop being so cryptic,” she gritted between clenched teeth.

 

Lucien set his jaw, a blood vessel popping out under the skin, and grasped her hands, extricating her hands from his clothing, and she winced as she felt the bones in her wrists and palms creak against each other. “You do not order me, girl,” he snarled at her, and she swallowed and nodded. “You should be grateful I’ve even come to you with this proposition.”

 

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Let me put it in simpler terms for you, then: You should be grateful to me that I bothered to work to spare your pathetic life.”

 

She moved to take a step back but his grip tightened on her. “What do you mean?” she whimpered, wetly.

 

“I assured them you haven’t been with us long enough to be the cause of our misfortunes, and there was enough evidence to that effect. These events have been going on since before you arrived but we could have included you anyway. The problem now lies with the Sanctuary itself. Killing the traitor would be a bonus.”

 

“Killing?”

 

“Yes, the Sanctuary must be rid of the taint of betrayal. A sacrifice, if you will, to appease Sithis and the Night Mother.”

 

She jerked back, color draining from her face, and she renewed her efforts to break from his hold. His hands held fast, and she struggled with him.

 

“Let me _go_ ,” she shrieked, managing to push against his chest and free one hand. She landed a hit against his chest, and again to his face. She caught his eyes widening as his face flushed. He bared his teeth as he backhanded her across her face, and she collapsed, with him still holding on to her other arm. She saw stars burst into her vision and pain bloomed over the cheek and temple he struck, blood rushing to it and she entertained the thought that she’d bruise rather badly in that spot. She felt the sting of what must have been a ring that caught on her flesh, and blood burst over her tongue from her lip from where her teeth cut into it.

 

He hauled her up from where she landed, one hand crushing her forearm and the other winding in her long hair. He slammed the girl against the stone wall, near where his bed was positioned, and her breath left her in a gasp. She choked and coughed as she attempted to catch her breath.

 

“Do not ever strike me again, you petulant child,” he growled, tightening his fist in her hair, smirking at her cry. “I have had enough of your attitude, your sullenness. Sulky, moody Felicienne,” he mocked, watching the torchlight reflect off of the wet trails that now smudged her cheeks. “You are ungrateful for everything I have done for you. I could have--should have--left you to perish in the Purification instead of telling the Black Hand you would be best suited to carry it out. Do you know who would have carried it out if not for you?”

 

She shook her head, hair whipping across her face, strands sticking to her moist cheeks and he leaned in closer to her, feeling her breath tickle his lips and inhaling that strange sweetness that lingered around her like the wings of luna moths and torch bugs. He saw her huge, glassy eyes and leered. “It would have been me.” He pushed himself against her, groaning. “Do you know what I would have done?” She shook her head, squirming against him. “I would have made you watch,” he hissed to her. “I would have started with Vicente, he would be the toughest, and I would have ended with Antoinetta and I would have made you watch the entire thing before I started on you. It would be relatively quick for your Family members, but you’ve been such a contrary, spiteful girl that I would take my time with you. It would not be quick, and it would not be easy. And you would feel every. Single. Moment. Of it. I could keep you around for days.” He pushed off of her, and she slid down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. He looked down at her small form, shaking, hair disheveled, and he crouched down to her level, taking her chin in his hands. “I have spared you of that,” he assured her. “So long as you complete the Purification, and do as I say, you need not worry.”

 

Lucien pulled her into a kiss, bringing his other hand to her injured cheek and pressing onto it, and when she gasped he slid his tongue into the soft cavern of her mouth. He tasted the copper and salt that lingered on her lips and brought her closer to him. He pet her hair as she began to tremble. He broke their contact and rested his forehead against hers.

 

“Perform the Rite. You must kill all of the members of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. There is no avoiding it.” He forced her eyes onto him. “You are my Silencer now.”

 

“You are mine.”

 

She nodded, looking at him through damp lashes, flames reflecting off of the shimmering surface of her eyes, and he leaned into her again.

 

She leaned, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Felicienne stumbled back into the sanctuary in the darkest part of the night, unable to go right away, and she drifted through Cheydinhal before the guards began to regard her hooded, watchful eyes. Even the torches that lined the walls of the chambers burned low and dim. The only sounds that echoed in the halls were those of the dark guardian and Schemer, and she flopped into her usual chair at the hearth, red rimmed eyes staring into orange embers, and she reached into her pack and pulled out a small glass bottle, with swirling purple liquid glimmering under the low light. She unstoppered the bottle, pulling the cork out with her teeth and took a long swig that burned down her throat and coated her mouth with syrup and sweetness. She felt it reach inside and coil around her, warmth dripping down her and settling inside her abdomen, and she leaned back against the chair and shivered. She turned her face towards the ceiling and her eyes slid shut only for twin streams to trail down the sides of her cheeks and slip down the slope of her neck, over the dark bruises that blossomed there.

 

She heard everything through the sound of rushing water and stars danced in the corners of the room, just out of her line of sight and she felt a laugh bubble in her chest, fluttering its wings beneath her ribcage and she gnawed her lip to silence it. Silence, she thought, her lips twitching.

 

Silencer.

 

She snorted, her eyes roving behind their lids, dark lashes fanning out over her cheekbones. Her hands slid up and down her thighs, feeling them quiver and shake under her ministrations as she let out a trembling breath before wrapping her arms around herself, feeling the ridges of her bones beneath her fingers. She licked her lips, chasing the sugar that clung to that flesh, and she felt herself float, her limbs lightening and her world shrinking to only the roaring in her ears.

  
  
  


 

 

Felicienne was perched on top of Antoinetta, the woman underneath grasping at the girl’s waist, arms, belt, anything that was within reach. Their faces splattered with blood, and Felicienne with a film of grey dust and frost burns. The blonde bucked the smaller girl off of her and landed a punch on her bruised cheek before rolling off of her.

 

Antoinetta had heard shouts earlier, as she was entering the sanctuary from the abandoned house, the sounds of furniture being upended, and the zing of spells slicing through the air reverberated even above ground. Antoinetta burst through the black door to see M’raaj-dar’s throat being slit by Felicienne, who dropped the bleeding mage and charged towards her.

 

“Why?” the older woman screamed, holding her dagger as she watched her Sister stand up in a pool of blood, her clothing sticking to her, various cuts and bruises littering her pale form.

 

The brunette lifted her bright gaze to Antoinetta. “I have to,” she told her, her voice vibrating and ricocheting off of the stone walls. “I don’t have a choice,” she insisted. “He’s making me.”

 

“Who’s making you?” Antoinetta wept, tightening her grip on her blade when she saw Felicienne lift hers. The girl’s moves were becoming erratic, she began to pace, her free hand running through her hair over and over again, until it was nearly unbound. She saw the discoloration around the girl’s neck and throat, and she swallowed.

 

“You know who,” Felicienne said, her movements unceasing, and weeping fought its way through her lips. She stopped and brought a hand to her hair, fisting the locks and tugging. “You know it’s Lucien. But you won’t believe me. You never believe me about him. You’re too in love with him to see anything,” she accused, glaring into Antoinetta’s hazel eyes.

 

Antoinetta felt her stomach crash into the floor, and she had to drink down her heart as it clawed its way up her esophagus. “That can’t be,” she shook her head. “Why would he--”

 

“You see?” the girl shrieked. “You don’t believe me. He’s a monster and _you don’t care_.” Her face crumpled, the glare dissolving like snow. “And you hate me for him. I’m not stupid. You wish he’d just gotten rid of me.”

 

“I  _loved_ you,” Antoinetta shouted at her.

 

“I don’t want to do this,” the other Breton said. She folded in on herself and collapsed onto the floor, her dagger still clenched in a fist.

 

Antoinetta stepped over to her, watching the girl breathe in deep, heavy sobs, and knelt down beside her. She reached out to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder only for Felicienne to jerk away.

 

“Don’t touch me,” she shrieked. Her eyes darted to where Antoinetta held her dagger and they gleamed. She lunged towards the blonde, and Antoinetta made to stab her, but stopped short. Felicienne’s face twisted and tears spilled from her and over her trembling lips and she plunged her knife into Antoinetta's throat. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped, pulling the blade out and watching the other woman’s blood flow from her neck as she slumped to the ground, the crimson pool surrounding her and staining her hair. Felicienne laid down next to her, feeling the warm liquid cling to her, and curled up and let herself drift off, the copper-heavy air biting at her.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been nearly a full day, and Lucien paced back and forth in his chamber. Nearly a whole day with no sign of his Silencer. Did she run away? Was she biding her time?

 

Was she dead?

 

He shook his head. If what he heard about her had been true, her entering those Oblivion Gates that dotted the province and emerging in one piece, this ritual should be no difficult task for her.

 

Still.

 

He had sent her against a group of experienced assassins.

 

Perhaps he should have gone with her. Or he could have spoken with Mathieu and his Speaker. Mathieu seemed to have a soft spot for the girl.

 

The Imperial pinched the bridge of his nose. If she didn’t show soon, he’d go find her himself. She should have been back by now.

 

The sound of metal grinding against metal rang out through the room, a hinge protesting as it was forced open under insistent hands, and his Silencer popped out of the pipe that led into this room, as ungraceful as the first time she entered, bare feet landing too hard, and stumbled and fell to her knees, giggling. He scowled at her and hauled her up. She collapsed against him, her body still shaking with laughter. That sickly sweet scent around her stifled the air, and he tilted her head up to look at her face. Her pupils were blown, leaving only a small sliver of deep blue around them, and her face was stained with oxidized blood, enhanced by the bruising he left behind. She let a soft moan escape from her and brought her arms around his neck, rubbing her body on him. His hips jerked against her and she let out another round of titters. He held her upper arms and held her away from him.

 

“Were you drinking?”

 

She hummed, running her hands over his chest. “Not exactly,” she teased, her speech slurring. “Better,” she confessed. “I did what you wanted, don’t worry.” Her head lolled to one side before she regained control of her neck and tilted it back to look at him. “I just needed something to take the edge off,” she murmured, struggling past his hands to press her face into his chest. “They’re all dead,” she whispered. “I did everything you wanted,” and she released another laugh. “Well, not everything, I guess.” And she brought her mouth to his neck, tasting charred wood and smoke there. She sucked on the skin, worrying it with her tongue and whimpering when he brought his hands down to her waist and untucked her blood-soaked blouse.

 

Her soft little mouth on him made his blood race like fire through his veins. He trailed his fingers up her bare stomach and around to her back, until they reached the smallclothes that bound her breasts and untied them, letting the straps fall away. Pulling her away, he then lifted her shirt over her head, and slipped the shoulder straps of her undergarment down her slim arms, exposing her to his eyes. There were transparent brown patches where the blood from her shirt stuck to her skin, and various bruises, and he smirked when he saw the ones he left behind the last time she had been with him. He then crushed her to him and hauled her up into his arms and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He settled her on his bed and licked a stripe up her blood-stained cheek as he brought his hands down to undo the fastenings of her breeches. She let out a shuddering gasp, and he looked up to see her eyes go wide and she jerked away from him. He held her more firmly to the bed and tugged her trousers down, leaving her in only her linen smallclothes.

 

“You are my good girl, aren’t you? My good, good girl,” he murmured into her collarbone as he dragged sucking kisses up and down her neck and clavicle, stopping at her throat and nipping at it. “I remember you lying asleep that night, when we met for the first time.” Lucien shrugged his robe off, followed by his linen shirt, before covering her body with his own. He groaned when she brought her hands to his trousers, feeling his hardness trapped within the cloth. “I wished that you would have been a contract.”

 

“You want to hurt me,” she murmured. He hummed and brought a hand to his pants, undoing the ties and sliding them down his hips, freeing his straining manhood. He placed her hand back on him, curling her fingers around the hardness, thick and heavy, that she found there. She stroked him, up and down and up and down, rubbing her thumb over the moisture that beaded at the tip.

 

He forced her legs apart with his knees and grabbed both of her hands in one of his and pinned them above her head. She gazed at him, swollen lips and huge eyes, but they slid shut when he lowered his mouth back down to her chest and kissed from her sternum to one of her breasts, and he brought a rosy nipple into his mouth to suckle on, grinning when he felt her arch against him. He laved it with his tongue before moving on to the other one, repeating the action. His free hand skimmed down her stomach and slipped into her panties, tracing the outer lips of her labia, feeling the heat that pooled there and letting a finger slip over her opening, causing her breath to hitch and to spread her thighs wider.

 

“Please,” she whispered, straining against his grasp.

 

“Please, what?” he asked, breaking away from her breasts. He rested his head on her chest and kept his touch light and feathery on her slit.

 

“Touch me,” she begged.

 

“Touch you? That’s a far cry from what I’ve heard from you before,” he mocked, his finger still circling her wet center. She brought her knees up to his sides, holding his waist between her thighs, and he let his middle finger slide into her. He sighed when he felt her clench around the digit and she gasped above him. “You’re so small, sweetheart,” he cooed at her, releasing her arms and raised himself over her, still holding her between her thighs. He stroked her face, fingers like spiders trailing over her cheeks and skimming over her mouth. He pressed his index and middle finger between her lips, and she relented and let them in and they swept over her tongue and the inside of her cheeks, tickling the roof of her mouth. The Imperial lent down to kiss the corner of her mouth and dragged his own towards her ear. “Suck on them,” he ordered. He felt her tongue begin to work the fingers in her mouth, and he moved them in and out between her lips. His other hand slid away from her before adding another finger, and she choked, but recovered. He took his thumb there and circled it around her clit, and she bucked against him, her slick flowing more freely now and he gave her another kiss on the pulse of her neck.

 

Her hands came up to his shoulders and she ran her palms up and down his upper arms, her eyes sliding shut when he twisted the fingers inside of her and pushed his thumb down on her little pearl. He removed himself from her mouth and brought the wet fingers to her nipples, pinching and twisting them, and she released a throaty moan trapped in her throat. He then surged upwards, his hands leaving her body and he grinned at the whine that escaped her. He grabbed her hips and jerked them towards him, his erection pressing against the damp cloth that kept him from having her and he untied the small laces that held it together.

 

When his turgid flesh came into contact with her, he gripped her hips so hard that bruises blossomed under his fingers. He felt her move her hips, dragging herself against him, and he had to close his eyes. Upon opening them, he saw Felicienne’s hands cupping her breasts, and she stared at him with fevered eyes. He watched her white teeth sink into scarlet, glistening petals.

 

“You’re so small,” he repeated, leering down at her. “This is going to hurt. Don’t worry about holding back; no one can hear you from down here.” And he thrust in, forcing her body to give way to him. Her cunt gripped onto him so that it was almost painful. He grinned in lurid pleasure, hearing her sharp cries and feeling her drip down his length as she made slight circling motions with her hips. Then he pounded into her, her cries rising in pitch and frequency, echoing against the stone walls. He glided in and out with more and more ease, and she dragged her fingers down his back, clawing and pinching at the skin there. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she locked her ankles behind him, anchoring her to him and he cradled an arm under her back and shifted them so that he leant back and she came down on his lap, forcing his length deeper into her, causing another sharp cry as it hit the opening of her womb.

 

She worked herself up and down his shaft and he pulled her hair, forcing her head back to expose her neck and he brought his teeth to it, biting down until the skin broke, and he felt her body clamp down on him as she came, squeezing even tighter around him and soaking his manhood and spilling onto his bed sheets while he fucked her through her orgasm. She hung in his arms, limbs slack while she clung to him, the force of his thrusts jarring her body until he felt his loins draw upwards and his abdomen clench before he forced her completely down on his cock and flooded her with his seed. Blood rushed in his ears as he slowed, licking up and down her neck and tasting the blood he put there. He laid her back down before withdrawing himself, unmindful of his ruined bedding. He gathered her quivering form into his arms before reaching down to pull the covers over them.

 

She lay on her side, facing away from him, the room coming back into focus as she blinked away the soft haze and she felt his hands running over her body, still touching, still fondling, and he ran one of his hands down between her thighs again, pushing his fingers inside of her, where she was still tender and aching. He pumped them in and out and in and out, slowly, almost absently, and he then trailed the same fingers up her stomach, over her breasts and to her mouth. She parted her lips and sucked on them, and he kissed her temple.

 

Drained, she felt herself begin to fall further away, but distantly heard his voice whisper to her against the shell of her ear.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmured. “You’ve done so well. You’ve by far exceeded my expectations, sweetheart, and now you are my own Silencer,” he said. “Mine,” he stressed. Limbs and eyes heavy, she only nodded and found herself sinking back into him. “Rest now, you’ve had a long day,” and she thought she heard him chuckle, the sound settling in her stomach, burning her and her thighs clenched. He removed his hand from her mouth and she licked her lips. “We will discuss your new position in our Family when you wake. Just sleep now.”

 

She watched the shadows from the fires dance and twist, running along the floor, ever-reaching.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is, one of the chapters I dreaded because it made me so sad. And I wasn't sure I could do it justice, to be completely honest. I also want to make it clear that I'm not trying to idealize this relationship between the Hero and Lucien; it's supposed to be pretty twisted because, well, he's kind of a twisted character, and she's pretty messed up too. They're both working out some issues, I think. 
> 
> Anyway, enough of that. I want to thank everyone for their continued support, and again, if you want to keep up to date with me and any other projects I have going on, go ahead and check out my Tumblr at silencebrulant.tumblr.com


	16. The Honey-Sweet Fruit of Which She Ate

Felicienne woke some time later to rumpled sheets and an empty bed, the cloth sticking to her tacky, tepid flesh and she shivered, drawing her thighs together, feeling the ache in her limbs and pelvis. Syrupy sweetness lingered on her tongue and her perfumed hair spilled around her shoulders, having come unbound some time in her sleep. She blinked, her gaze flitting across the room, but it was the same lighting as it had been before she fell asleep, and the torches appeared to have been lit sometime in the last hour or so. She wrapped the sullied sheets around her, cocooning herself against the damp dungeon air. 

 

The girl wilted back down against the bed, on her side, bringing her knees to her chest as best she could  while wrapped in those sheets. Her ears were filled with cotton, forcing her to hear the blood rush under her skin and she felt the trickle of fingers skimming across the expanse of her back, tickling against her spine and tangling in her hair. She closed her eyes and watched the swathes of purples and greens that danced behind her lids and spiraled around each other as she inhaled that sticky rose oil that soaked her hair. 

 

The sound of the hatch above being opened caught her attention and she sat up through the treacle that slithered along her flesh and dampened the back of her neck. 

 

Lucien came into view a few moments later, clad in his black robes, and she wished she had gotten around to right herself, at least. She scooted back closer to the wall, watching as he lowered his cowl before turning his face towards her. 

 

“I trust you slept alright?” he questioned.

 

She nodded, before clearing her throat. “I did, thank you,” she mumbled, clenching the sheets in her white-knuckled fists. She breathed in, feeling her chest expand despite the vice that squeezed itself around her ribcage, choking her heart and lungs. “Where,” she broke off, swallowing, then licked her lips, “where did you go?” she asked, glancing down towards her lap, watching the shadows bounce around in the wrinkles of the covers cast from the blazing torches. 

 

She felt, rather than saw, him turn towards her, and hardness in his stare that had not been there before, and he came around towards the bed before sitting on it. “I had some business to take care of,” he told her. “We have much to discuss, regarding your new duties to the Black Hand and what will be expected of you now.”

 

Felicienne hummed, then jumped when his hand fell upon her bare shoulder.

 

“Still so jumpy,” he scoffed. 

 

She hurried to assure him and shook her head, her words leaving her in gasps. “No,” she said, “it was just a long day and I’m--I suppose I didn’t sleep that well after all.”

 

He regarded her for a moment before taking her chin in his hand and lifting her face for a kiss. When they parted, he trailed his hand against the bruising on her jaw and cheek, and she winced as the flesh there was aggravated. His lips quirked up at the corners, and he moved his hand to her other shoulder so that his arm enveloped her and he pulled her closer to him, tucking her head under his chin. 

 

“I see,” he said, skimming her shoulder with his gloved hand. “I was just tying up some loose ends,” the man stated.

 

“Loose ends?” she asked, tilting her face up, forehead brushing against the stubble of his jaw. “Oh,” she murmured as that familiar pinch came back to her eyes and nose, closing her throat so that she had to swallow past the ball of ice that stuck there, clinging to the sides. “What,” she inhaled, “what did you have to do?” she asked, holding herself tighter. 

 

“Another family member helped to dispose the bodies, and clean up the blood. Schemer was already eating some of them,” he answered. 

 

She wrenched herself away from him, still tangled in the bedsheets, and backed herself into the wall. “How can you act like this?” she cried. “They loved you so much. Antoinetta loved you. You raised Ocheeva and Teinaava; they told me you were like a father to them. How can--how can you be--why?” she broke herself off and began to sob, tears mixing with the remains of blood and sweat on her face and muddied tracks ran down to her jaw. 

 

“The Night Mother killed her own children to appease Sithis. Who am I to refuse to make such a sacrifice?” he asked her, leaning over towards the girl. 

 

His jaw was set and brows lowered, and his eyes appeared bloodshot with dark circles underneath. She looked away from him, gazing instead towards the wall. Her lips quivered and she brought her palms to her face to wipe away the moisture there, smearing the concoction of blood and saline. She dragged her tongue across her upper lip, tasting bitter copper and whimpered. “How could you make me do it?”

 

He heaved a sigh as he settled back down next her her, his back against the headboard and he stared at her profile. “I was not lying to you when I said that if I had to do it, then you would die as well, whether or not you could have reasonably been implicated. I thought it more prudent to keep you alive, as you’ve demonstrated your skills time and time again. You were fortunate that the rest of the Black Hand agreed with me.”

 

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice soft and she saw herself nod and Lucien scoot closer to leave kisses on her hair and face and neck. That metallic scent that clung to him seeped into her hair, into her pores. She tasted it and wished to flood it out with mushrooms and roses and greenmote. Brandy and wine. Something thick and sweet and floral.

 

Like Nightshade. 

 

She shook her head when she felt glittering fog roll in and bite at her skin as Lucien’s hands ran over it, leaving scratches and fire in their wake. 

 

“Lucky me,” she whispered. They sat together for several minutes, his hands roving over her and she watched the play of light on a patch of moss that clung to the stone expanse in front of her. The pit in her stomach gnawed at her, suctioning everything inside of her and clawed up her throat and she worried it would suck everything in the room into her, and she felt sweat bead around her temples and lip, and she placed her hands on top of Lucien’s. At their pause, she turned her face to him. “May I get dressed?”

 

He nodded to her, stroking her cheek one last time before letting her up and out of bed, keeping the sheet with him so that she was bared to him, flesh and bruises and blood splatter. The peaks of her ribs reached across her back and sides like branches, the skin stretched taut over them. Her hips were blemished with now purple--nearly black--contusions and he felt a smile flit over his features. She moved purposefully--carefully--as she went to gather her stained clothes. He called out to her.

 

“I took the liberty of grabbing some of your things out of your trunk, and brought your pack here.” He pointed to the ladder leading outside. “I considered the possibility that you may not want to head back to the Sanctuary right away.” She looked at him, her mouth opened slightly and nodded, following his gesture. 

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled before she slipped on her linens; she would need to go back to Mariana’s to wash up, and then she could change into something more appropriate. 

 

She still had to get back to Martin.

 

A pang went through her. He would know. Just by looking at her, he would know. He always knew. He would never confront her about anything; he just gave her lingering glances and pointed questions and smiles that prompted tears. She hugged her bag to her, cradling the weight against her body.

 

“We do still need to discuss your future,” Lucien reminded her, his voice clogging her ears. She nodded again and stood up to face the Imperial. 

 

He crossed the room towards the girl and clasped her arms, and he held her gaze. “As I have told you, the Black Hand is most pleased with your progress and you have been chosen to become my Silencer. My personal assassin. My last one died fulfilling a contract, and now that vacancy has been filled by you. From now on, you will receive your contracts directly from me, in dead drop locations throughout Cyrodiil. Your life in the Sanctuary is over. You serve me now.” Watching her face--the tick of her jaw, the fluttering of her lashes, and the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips--he exhaled. Leaning down, he placed his mouth next to her ear and murmured, “Do not make me regret this,” his hot breath ghosting over her ear, and her skin prickled. 

 

Felicienne shook her head, and turned her face towards his cheek and placed a soft kiss on the stubble there, feeling it scrape against her. 

 

“There is one other thing, a reward, if you will.” He stepped back from her and brushed his hand over her hair. “My horse, Shadowmere, is stabled outside. I would like for you to consider her a gift. A token of my gratitude, and my love.” 

 

She blinked a couple times, a frown marring her face when she looked back at him. “Oh wow, really?”

 

“Yes, really. If nothing else, it will shave off travel time for you,” he said, mouth tightening at the corners as he fell silent. 

 

“Wow. Thank you,” she told him, lips forming a pout and blue pools open and bright. “I--thank you.”

 

“Indeed,” he muttered and he folded his arms in front of him. “Now, leave if you must. I will send for you, with the location of your first dead drop.”

 

Her face fell. “You--you want me to go?”

 

“I imagine you must have other matters to attend to.”

 

“I mean, I do have to take care of some business up north--”

 

“Then do not let me stop you. I will send for you,” he repeated, turning his back to her. 

 

The young Breton peered at his back, huddling in on herself. “Are you upset with me?”

 

“No. As I said, I will send for you in the future. Take care of your business.”

 

“Alright...you--you know where to reach me in Bruma?”

 

“I would be able to find you whether I knew or did not.”

 

She nodded, though he could not see her, and made her ascent up the ladder and out of Fort Farragut into the grey light of morning, stomach churning and twisting around itself. Her body still ached, and she was unsure of how she would manage to ride a horse all the way to Bruma, though now it was by far preferable to walking. She walked around the fort and heard the shuffling of hooves on grass, the crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs. She came upon a glossy black mare with an eerie red stare. 

 

She was reminded of Relmyna, and she smiled. 

 

Felicienne looked back at the walls of Cheydinhal, remembering her state of disarray, and sighed. It would be best if she followed the path of her original thoughts and cleaned herself up before heading out. Perhaps she’d grab a pint as well. 

 

* * *

 

She stepped into Newlands Lodge, and her gaze fell upon the table where Antoinetta and she often sat. Where they had just been barely two weeks ago. A dark figure sat there and she felt her lungs constrict until the light hit the figure a certain way, and she recognized Mathieu. Foregoing the publican, she beelined her way to the table and sat across from the other Breton. 

 

He looked at her, pityingly, and she bristled, her back ramrod straight despite her discomfort. Unfortunately, he caught her wince and frowned at her. 

 

“Are you alright?” he questioned while his eyes scanned her appearance. 

 

She shivered, feeling exposed, and her skin crawled and she turned away from him. 

 

“I heard about what happened. I’m--I’m so sorry for what you were made to do,” he stated. 

 

The girl inhaled and held it for a moment, and began to sob. Quietly and first, but they began to escape with more force, and Mathieu stood up and ushered her up the stairs. “I have a room here,” he whispered. “Try to hold yourself together until we get there.”

 

The trip seemed like an eternity despite the short distance it was past the stairs. When they entered the drab sleeping quarters, she collapsed against him. He rubbed circles along her back, shushing her as she soaked his doublet.

 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I don’t mean to cry all over you.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. When I heard what was to happen, I expected something like this.”

 

“You knew? Before?”

 

He looked away when she pulled back from him, and his shoulders slumped. “I did. I was there for the initial meeting the Speakers held about the situation, since Cheydinhal was my first Sanctuary. I was,” he paused, blinking, “tempted to send word to Antoinetta.”

 

At the mention of the blonde’s name, Felicienne burst into a fresh bout of sobs and Mathieu walked the girl over to the bed so she could sit down lest she harm herself.

 

“Why didn’t you?” she hiccuped.

 

“They would have found her anyway, Felicienne, and you know that. And then they would have killed you as well. A slow death. A traitor’s death.” A shudder ran through him. “You do not want to see what that looks like.”

 

“I wish they had.”

 

“No,” he chastised her, grabbing her shoulders. He shook her until she looked him in the eye. “You mustn't think like that. You do not know what they would do to you. I’ve only seen it once before, and I’ll never forget it. This is only a taste, a fraction, of what they’re capable of.” He took several deep gulps of air before continuing. “I--I couldn’t bear to see you like that,” he admitted. “You--you do not deserve this life. You do not deserve Lucien.” 

 

Her lashes fluttered as she tilted her face to look at him and thought she saw something flash across his face, a grimace, before it shuttered and he let out a shaky breath.

 

“He made me his Silencer,” she confessed.

 

He scoffed. “I thought he might. He spoke about you quite a bit in meetings. A couple of the other members of the Black Hand took to teasing him about it.”

 

She let out a startled laugh. “Teasing? I can’t imagine it.”

 

“We’re not all inhuman monsters,” he told her, giving her a half smirk. 

 

She frowned. “I feel like I am. I don’t know what’s happening to me.” She tilted her head away, seeing nothing as her eyes filled with tears again. “I just don’t know if anything I feel or do is real.”

 

“Hush now,” he murmured when he saw her working herself up. “It’s the stress you’re under. And you’re rattled right now. You just need to rest.” He brushed her hair back and frowned when she flinched. He started when his gaze happened upon the dark bruising on her cheekbone and the healing scrape in the center of it.

 

She felt where his line of sight lingered. “That--that’s nothing. It happened before the ‘ritual,’” she muttered with a scowl. 

 

“Before?” Understanding then bloomed on his face. “I see.”

 

“I’ve had worse,” she said, thinking of the times Dagon’s Dremora footsoldiers clocked her over the head with their daedric maces. 

 

“Right,” he mumbled. He faced away from her and glared at the floor.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried. 

 

They sat in silence, only the sound of Felicienne’s renewed weeping and Mathieu’s steady, controlled breaths, in and out in and out through the nose, clogging the air in the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Martin was a curious combination of both elated and despairing as he sat at the dining table, Mysterium Xarxes spread open in front of him. He finally discovered the second item they would need for Paradise, but he had little idea of how to obtain it. Jauffre said he might have an idea, but Martin was skeptical at best and downright doubtful at worst. They’d sent word to Felicienne, so they were hopeful the girl would turn up soon. 

 

“Martin,” Jauffre’s voice invaded the youngest Septim’s musings. “Waiting up for her won’t make her arrive any more quickly. You might as well go to bed; it’s rather late.” The Grandmaster of the Blades took a seat across the table from the not-yet-coronated emperor and groaned. “She can take care of herself, you know. She’s proven to be quite capable.”

 

The Imperial nodded, steepling his fingers in front of him when he placed his elbows on the table. “I know that; I just can’t help but worry. She just--she doesn’t appear to be well, lately. I fear we’ve been asking too much of her.”

 

“I’m sure she can handle it. I don’t think she would have any qualms about letting us know if she were fed up.”

 

Martin chuckled. “That is true, but...are you sure sending her to Sancre Tor is the best option we have? We don’t even know if Tiber Septim’s armor will work for this purpose.”

 

“It’s really the only option we have right now. Aedra don’t manifest on the physical plane. You said that yourself. The only thing that could work is the armor.” Jauffre saw Martin’s frown and he fought back a sigh. “Perhaps we could send someone else with her. Maybe Baurus would be up to it; they’ve worked together before.”

 

Martin’s gaze hardened. “I should be the one doing this. I’m part of the cause of all of this.”

 

“Martin,” Jauffre interrupted. “You absolutely cannot be placed in any danger. You aren’t a farmer’s son anymore; you are the emperor, and if anything happens to you then this world is doomed. Your intent is honorable, but I’m sure you know that even Felicienne would refuse even your company on such a dangerous excursion.”

 

“I know,” he forced out. “I just hate sitting around here and being useless.”

 

“If you weren’t here, we would not have anyone to translate that blasted tome of Dagon’s.”

 

“Right, and it took me over a month to figure out what the next piece was. We don’t have that kind of time anymore. More Oblivion Gates keep cropping up, and the city guards can only do so much. Felicienne can only do so much. We have to end this soon.”

 

Jauffre nodded, but his face grew pensive. “Martin,” he began. “May I speak to you? Frankly?”

 

“Yes, of course, Jauffre. What is it?”

 

“You have been rather,” he trailed off, exhaling through his nose and crossing his arms over his chest, “rather preoccupied with our young friend,” he finished. 

 

“I don’t--”

 

“Please, Martin, I need to say this. There isn’t anything wrong with your friendship with her, but...I have received reports of some rather--how to put it--unsavory associations that she has made. And coupled with what little we know of her past...it just isn’t wise to become too...distracted by her.” He stopped, seeing the scowl forming on the younger man’s face. “I mean no ill-will towards her. I care for her in my own way; who knows what kind of life she’s had, and I understand that people do the best with what they have, but you have to consider your life after this crisis.”

 

“I do not know what you are speaking about. She has gone above and beyond what any average citizen would do, so I am unsure where this attitude is coming from.”

 

“It only comes from a place of concern. For you both, in all actuality. If you were to make your...interests known, consider how it would affect her as well. She would be scrutinized by anyone of standing, including the members of the Elder Council. They would pry into every aspect of her life. Would you not want to spare her that? And,” the older man exhaled and leaned back in his seat and ran his hand over his face and scalp, groaning, “and she is a lovely girl, in the bloom of her youth...If I can’t convince you it would be a bad idea for political sake, at least consider that.” He stood up, brushing his trouser free of imaginary dust and lint. “But I shall speak no more of it; I have voiced my concerns. Do with them as you wish. Know that I only want happiness for the both of you.” The Breton began to turn away from Martin, pausing to say, “I will be heading to the barracks now, I suggest you get some rest as well.”

 

Martin nodded, gaze downcast as Jauffre walked away. When he heard the other man’s footsteps fade from the room, he shut the Xarxes and pushed it away. He glanced out the window to the pitch black sky of the Jerall Mountains. Less and less snow had been falling lately, a sure sign that First Seed was well on its way, which meant Rain’s Hand would be upon them soon. He released his breath, eyes flicking down to the heavy wooden door that guarded them against the still-frigid weather, though it remained still and he chuckled to himself. It was rather late, and he doubted Felicienne would be traveling this far into the night. At least, he’d hoped she wouldn’t. Too many dangers, not even counting highwaymen and bandits. 

 

He would head to bed. Just a few more minutes and he would definitely get up to go to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for the comments and kudos left behind on Chapter 15! I was so nervous posting that chapter, as it was so difficult to write, and reread to edit, and seeing people's responses really meant a lot to me, so thank you so much. So here's Chapter 16. A little bit slower and shorter, but I felt like 15 was such a...busy and long chapter, and was emotionally taxing--at least for me--that 16 could be a little more gentle. I always welcome feedback and criticism, even if you want to tell me something isn't working. I'm still editing the rest of the chapters, so it really does help. 
> 
> And, again, you can all check out my Tumblr to see what's going on with this series, if you all want. You can also see me being an idiot. Fun times.


	17. Spite of Despondence

Days later and Felicienne ruminated over her last encounter with Lucien--though she was hours or so from Cloud Ruler--and Shadowmere’s presence acted as a constant reminder of the man himself and she had clung to the horse’s neck during their journey. The press of her soft hair against the Breton’s cheek and the rhythmic motion of her muscles as she trotted up the roads almost put Felicienne to sleep several times.  Her stomach felt nauseous as she thought about Cheydinhal, and Fort Farragut, and she wished she were back in bed, even if Lucien was there with his wandering hands and burning whispers.

 

But he was warm and smelled of wood and smoke and ashes.  

 

She let her eyes travel over Shadowmere’s glossy coat: a gift from a Speaker to his Silencer; a token of gratitude. 

 

Of love.

 

She shook her head. The man was psychotic. Or alarmingly imbalanced. Mathieu had hinted to at least that. 

 

She touched her lips. 

 

Still, she thought, Lucien mentioned keeping her alive, and now that some of the sugar-coated fog of the last few days had finally cleared, she allowed his words to reverberate inside of her, to let him dominate her musings. For the time being.  He often said things like that: things that took her off of her guard, things to trick her, even back when they first met. He kept her in the dark then, too. 

 

He always kept her in the dark.

 

But why? And why bother keeping her alive. Surely it would have suited him better to be rid of her as well so that Cheydinhal could start over. She started when she heard Shadowmere let out a soft whinny and felt her shake her head, breaking her even stride along the road.

 

A token of gratitude and love.

 

She flushed remembering the night before she left, as awful as it had been, with her still wet from Antoinetta’s blood and covered in vampire dust. Gogron had managed to get a couple good licks to her, adding to her previous bruises and cuts, and for a moment she had feared she would die. 

 

It would have solved all of her problems. 

 

She didn’t know what possessed her to kiss the man. She had wanted to heave, or throw herself off of Dive Rock, or even, perhaps, infuriate Lucien to the point of carrying through with his underlying threats. 

 

He had been so warm and so strong, and the constant buzzing in the back of her mind and phantom sensations that tickled up her back and down her arms and around her hips ceased, for a moment, as his hands roved over her body, rough where gentle and playful had been. 

 

But he’d held her afterwards, still invading her, but he held her, and she’d felt his heartbeat flutter against her back while he ran his fingers over and inside of her as he murmured into her ear and pressed kisses to her temple. 

 

She closed her eyes.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Felicienne hobbled into Cloud Ruler before Magnus made his appearance over the Jerall mountains, erasing the stars and warming sky. She had been able to keep Shadowmere at the stable outside of Bruma, so at least it was unlikely anyone followed her, or would even know she’d come this way. 

 

Hopefully.

As she pushed the door open, the heated air of the temple enveloped her, soothing the ache of her bones and joints, and she tilted her head to the side to stretch her neck and felt a ‘pop’ as she did so. She dropped her bag on the floor and continued on her way inside, but stopped short at the sight that greeted her.

 

Martin had fallen asleep at the dining table. 

 

She shook her head and made her way to the Imperial. When she did, she lowered herself to her knees and shook his arm. “Martin,” she tried, then shook him harder. “Martin, you can’t sleep like this,” she laughed. She saw his lids flutter open and he started upon seeing her. He jerked up and stretched his arms to the sides before rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

“Did you just get back?” he asked, looking to the window.

 

She nodded. “And I guess you slept there all night,” she stated as she smiled at him. “That can’t be good for you. Especially at your age,” she teased before she got up off of the floor. 

 

“I’d watch your tone if I were you. It won’t be long until you’re here yourself.”

 

“Nope, I’m going to stay young forever, unfortunately,” she quipped and winked. He chuckled and stood up from his seat and she looked up at him. Patting his arm, she told him, “You should go to bed. At least for a little bit. It’s still really early, it’s barely even sunrise.”

 

“It’s fine now. I’m wide awake.” His gaze rested on her face and his brow lowered, lips turning down at the corners. “What happened to you? Did you close an Oblivion Gate on your way?”

 

“What? No, why?” Then she touched the side of her face. The ache she felt there told her that she had forgotten to use a potion. “It’s nothing,” she assured him. “Just got into a bit of a scuffle.” But her gaze flitted around the room, landing anywhere but on the Imperial.

 

He reached a hand up to trace the bruising. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he questioned her. 

 

“Yeah, of course.” She laughed. “You should see the other guy,” she said, grin planted over her mouth. 

 

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t doubt it,” he muttered. “But still…” he probed the discoloration, drawing a gasp from the Breton when he hit a particularly tender spot. “I could take a look at it, if you wanted. I do still remember being a priest,” he told her.

 

She opened her mouth, then shut it before sighing and nodding her head in assent. “Sure, why not.”

 

He raised his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling. “Really?”

 

“Yes, really. You won’t give me a moment’s peace until I either agree to letting you take a look at me or if I tell you I’ll go to the chapel in town. I might as well cave now; it’ll take less time that way.”

 

“Hush, you,” he scolded, but still shot her a grin. “Hop up on the table and look up.”

 

She complied, without arguing and her eyelashes fluttered against her cheekbones and she felt his hands cradle her face again. 

 

He hummed while he felt along her cheekbone and jaw.

 

“I meant to take a potion, but I guess I forgot,” she mumbled. 

 

“Potions can’t fix everything. You are quite neglectful--impressively so--of your health. You do need to occasionally see a healer.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you, father.”

 

“Don’t sass me.”

 

She stuck her tongue out, her eyes still closed, and smirked. 

 

“Nothing feels broken,” he told her. “I can heal it for you, if you would like. Are you injured anywhere else?”

 

“Ah, n-no, not really. Just sore. You know, from all the traveling. And carrying things. And the cold.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Oh yeah, completely. I’m fine. I’m completely fine. Just my face.”

 

He pressed his hand to the side of her face and hummed. “Be that as it may…” and she felt heated sparks dance over her cheek and down her arms and back and legs, and she felt the tension drain from her and she went limp, and Martin had to catch her. “I thought it best to use a somewhat stronger spell. You know, since you seem to avoid healers at all costs. I thought it might have been some time since you’ve had a proper check-up.”

 

She stretched her arms over her head, sighing, a small grin curling her lips. “By Kynareth, that feels amazing. I cannot remember the last time I didn’t feel at least a little sore,” she laughed. 

 

“I told you: potions can only do so much.”

 

“Fine, fine. I’ll listen to you more. Maybe. I’m not promising anything,” she told him as he helped to steady her back on her feet. 

 

“Well, don’t quite thank me yet,” he said and looked down at the floor. 

 

“Oh no?”

 

“Well, Jauffre should really be the one talking to you about this; he actually has most of the information--”

 

“It’s about the second item for the portal, isn’t it?”

 

He nodded and walked around Felicienne to the Xarxes and flipped it open. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. It’s the counterpart to the first item, something forged from the blood of a Daedra Lord.”

 

“So we’re--I’m--looking for something made from...an Aedra?” she questioned, squinting and forehead creased. She bit her lip and looked up to the ceiling, tapping a finger against her chin.

 

“Yes, and that was where the initial problem lay--”

 

“Do Aedra even have artifacts?”

 

“No, that is what I am saying--”

 

“I haven’t heard of any. Not really. Just things named after them. Or things they ‘blessed.’ They don’t usually do anything here--”

 

“Felicienne,” Martin cut in. She mouthed a ‘sorry’ and he sighed. “That is what I am trying to say. The Divines do not manifest on this plane of existence, so I was unsure of how it would even be possible to obtain such a thing. It was actually Jauffre who figured it out. The key lay with Tiber Septim, who  _ became _ Talos, but clearly, was a man first. Jauffre seems to believe you should be able to find Tiber Septim’s armor in Sancre Tor, and that we can use the blood on that to satisfy the requirements for the ritual.”

 

“But?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There’s always a ‘but’ with these things. Last time I had to get naked. What’s going to happen this time?”

 

Color suffused Martin’s face, but he cleared his throat and hurried to explain. “It’s just in a rather...precarious location.”

 

“Where everything else has been completely safe and danger-free and not at all out of the way or inconvenient.”

 

“Jauffre is really the one who can tell you more. I only know that it is dangerous. And cursed.”

 

She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time I had to go to a cursed tomb,” she muttered.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Nothing,” she smiled. “So I suppose I’m waiting for Jauffre then?”

 

“It might be best. He can give you more detail than I can, in any case.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” she breathed, turning her gaze towards the dim coals of the fireplace and the crackle of burnt wood filled her ears until her head buzzed with it. 

 

Orange oozed over the blackened wood and for a moment she wondered what it would feel like if she held it in her hand. Would it feel like a fireball, or would it melt her skin, or would she feel it at all? Her mother had once read her an old story about an Imperial general’s wife who, when he was away on campaign, had ended her life by swallowing fire, and Felicienne thought of how she had managed to do so. 

 

Did she eat it directly out of the hearth, or did someone feed it to her? Did it bring comfort inside of her as it did in the firepit during Evening Star, or did it melt a hole in her stomach? The Flame of Agnon had felt like a thousand little flames licking all over her body until she felt as though her skin cracked open and she would pour out over the ground until she drenched it and withered moons and butterfly wings bloomed where she spilled--

 

And hands gripped her shoulders and her gaze focused on Martin’s blue eyes and furrowed brows and moving lips that formed the syllables of her name. 

 

“Are you alright?” he rushed and placed a hand on her forehead. “Can you hear me? You need to sit back down.” Warm hands ushered her to one of the armchairs near the fireside and guided her body down and he kneeled in front of her. “You’re going to be alright,” he soothed and his hand came up to stroke her hair and she let out a stagnant breath.

 

“I’m fine,” she said, grimacing and her breaths coming in hiccoughs. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine,” she repeated until her words evaporated into sobs and he brought her into his arms and held her against him, the heat of him soaking into her while her shoulders shook and she brought her hands to his chest and fisted his robes in pale fingers. She let his whispers wash over her ears, telling her to take a deep breath. 

 

Martin smelled like sunlight.

 

She clung to him until Jauffre placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder. She felt him get up, and he placed her hands in her lap and turned to Jauffre. She heard him say something about waiting, that a few days wouldn’t make any difference in the long run and that it was an order. 

 

She watched the coals fall apart as ash took their places.

  
  
  
  
  


“She’s not going anywhere right now, Jauffre. She isn’t fit for it,” Martin asserted. “And don’t argue with me. I’m putting my foot down about this.”

 

The older Breton exhaled. “I wasn’t going to; I happen to agree with you. And I--” he ran his hands over his head, “I question her continuing on with this.”

 

“She just needs to rest. I hate to say it, but I don’t think anyone else can do what she’s done.” The younger man glanced back at Felicienne, seeing her gaze into the fire, and turned back to the Grandmaster. “She’s more than capable, and she’s the only one with experience with daedra like this. I’ll keep an eye on her. If she really is not up to the task anymore, we can try to make due.”

 

Jauffre gave a curt nod. “I’ll tell Baurus that this trip will be delayed for a week. We can revisit the subject then.” And he turned and left. 

 

Martin returned to the girl, still staring, but not crying this time. He knelt back in front of her and turned her face to him. “Please, you can tell me if there is something bothering you. Did something happen? You’re so--so secretive all of the time. I won’t judge you, if that’s what you think.”

 

She turned limpid eyes to him, too-bright in her face, and she said, “I’m really alright,” over the glass in her throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“You don’t need to apologize. Not to me. I should be apologizing. We’ve been asking a lot from you. It’s really not our place.”

 

The Breton shook her head. “I want to do this,” she admitted. “I know I’m sullen and moody--everyone always says so--and I complain a lot, but if nothing else, I owe it to your father. He saw something in me, I guess, thought I was the one to help you. Or something. I don’t think he knew what I’d turn out to be.”

 

“What you are,” he said, “is a very brave young woman who might make some...questionable decisions,” and she snorted here, and his lips lifted at the corners, “but you have a good heart. And I’m pleased to be able to call you a friend.”

 

He saw her swallow and her eyes grew wet again. “You’re too kind to me.” She looked away from him and he leaned forward to touch her hair again as she wrung her hands. “Martin, I--I’ve done things--”

 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered to me,” he said. 

 

She nodded but remained silent for some time. He just continued to kneel there, petting the long dark locks that perfumed the air around her, and he kept himself from turning his face into it. 

 

“I’m tired,” she told him. 

 

“Go sleep in my chambers.”

 

“Martin, I can’t.”

 

“Consider it an order. You need quiet, and you won’t get that in the barracks. And don’t worry about me. It’s morning and I still have research to do.” 

 

For a moment, she looked about to argue but then shook her head instead. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

 

He smiled. “Must have picked it up from you.”

 

She wrinkled her nose at him and he stood up, offering her his arm. “Now,” he said, “I will escort you to the bed so I can make sure you listen to me. Otherwise, I know you’ll sneak away the first chance you get.”

 

She glowered. “You going to tuck me in, too? Read me a bedtime story?”

 

He raised his eyebrows at her and opened his mouth to answer when she held up her hand. “Do not,” she laughed. 

 

* * *

 

She still lied in Martin’s bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling a persistent tug at the base of her skull and the center of her forehead. She shivered and dragged herself out of the comfort the bed provided, her bare feet padding on the cold wooden floor, the sudden temperature change a shock to her, and she pulled her shift around her tighter. She found herself standing in front of the armoire, and opened the doors with tingling, burning hands, the hinges emitting a long and drawn-out creak. 

 

The Sanguine Rose, leaning against the side of the closet, innocuous, drew her attention and color suffused her face and spread down her decollete. She had thought that perhaps Martin had already destroyed it, but dismissed the thought since it was likely the items would need to be used at the same time, and shook her head. 

 

So Martin had been sleeping in this room with the Rose not ten feet away from him. She recalled him having told her he too possessed it once and wondered if he ached to hold it now, or if so many years in the service of Akatosh purged him of that desire. 

 

Daedric Princes don’t like their gifts to be squandered.

 

She snorted. Wasn’t that the truth?

 

Her palms grew clammy and she balled them into fists, squeezing in time with her pulsing blood and the throbbing that embedded itself in her abdomen. She shook her head and nearly slammed the doors shut before she jumped back into the bed, and wrapped herself in the downy comforter. She pressed her face against the pillow and drew her knees up to her chest as much as she could with the blankets in the way, and she tightened her thighs against each other. She felt hot and nauseous and weak and the pulsating in her middle grew more insistent and she nearly screamed in frustration.

 

After nearly twenty minutes of trying to fall asleep despite the sensations that tickled her flesh and ran up and down the nape of her neck, she threw the covers off again and walked towards the small bar the quarters came with. She rummaged around for a moment until she found a decent bottle of wine, popped the cork off and drank directly from the bottle. 

 

“Good enough for you, you greedy bastard?” she asked to the empty room. “Now fuck off. I’m in no mood. I just want to sleep.”

 

She thought she felt a tickle of laughter behind her ear, and she glared and drank deeply, the floral notes drowning out the acidity that stung her lips and tongue, before finding her way back to the bed and passing out on top of it. Before oblivion claimed her, she felt the bed dip next to her and trails of fingertips dancing through her hair.

 

* * *

 

 

When she came to again, it was dark out and Martin sat at the edge of the bed, looking at the empty bottle of wine. She sat up and he looked at her, a moue of discontent adorning his face. 

 

Felicienne mumbled a sorry and shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep,” she offered as an explanation. “I did try.”

 

“I’m just concerned,” he said.

 

“It’s not like I do that all the time. I just...couldn’t sleep for a bit. I guess I was too distracted,” she mumbled, ignoring the stiffness in her back and neck, and felt a twinge when she went to cross her legs underneath her. “But I did get some rest. I feel much better now.”

 

“You do look a little better,” he conceded. “I’m still not budging on you staying here for at least a week.”

 

She scowled but nodded anyway. 

 

“Oh, before I forget,” he started, bending down to pick up a tray off of the floor, “I did bring you some dinner. It isn’t much, but I thought you’d be hungry. At least a little bit. And you need to eat anyway. I feel like I’ve seen you lose weight since meeting you.”

 

“Yeah,” she said, eyeing the plate he’d fixed her, “running around the province on a daedric scavenger hunt will do that for you.”

 

“Just eat. A bite from everything.”

 

“By the Nine, you’re not my father; you’re my mother,” she laughed and reached for the slice of buttered toast she spied. Taking a bite, she looked back at Martin and chewed for a moment. After she swallowed, she thanked him for thinking of her since she had, apparently, slept through dinner. 

 

She continued to nibble on the food Martin had brought her, and the Imperial just watched her, sitting with her while she choked down dinner. After only a few moments, she pushed the food away, but smiled at him, and told him she just wasn’t that hungry. He nodded and set the tray on the ground.

 

“I didn’t know you were keeping the Rose in here,” she said after a while. As his head snapped up, she continued, “Weren’t you the one telling me it was dangerous?”

 

He breathed in and slowly let it out through pursed lips. “I did, but in truth, I could not figure out a safe place for it. I didn’t think it right to leave it exposed, or where it could fall into... ill-prepared hands. I’ve taken the precautions I needed to, and I do have experience with it if you remember.” He frowned. “Of course, that brings us to the question of how you knew that I was keeping it in here.”

 

Felicienne flushed and turned away from him, running her fingers through her hair while pulling the covers up with her free hand. “I just...knew something was off. Then I found it.”

 

“You can sense it?”

 

“Well, it wasn’t like I knew what it was. Sometimes I’m just kind of sensitive to magic. Ever since--” she laughed “I mean ever since I first went to Oblivion. Maybe it’s just made me sensitive to daedric magic. Especially carrying around all of those sigil stones. I don’t recommend it.” She sat against the headboard again and glanced down at her lap, wringing her hands in the covers while she let out a long sigh.

 

“I should go,” he said, shifting his weight to stand up, “you need to rest still.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” she told him, jerking towards him. “I mean, I’m not really tired anymore and this is your bedroom anyway and if anyone should be leaving it should be me going back down to the barracks so you can get some sleep tonight since it’s already getting late--” She stopped as he held his hand up, laughing at her.

 

“That is impressive,” he observed, still smiling at her. She frowned and folded her arms, and he settled back down on the bed.

 

“I’m just bored,” she sulked. “I kind of don’t want to be by myself right now.”

 

She heard him hum and felt him come up beside her, still on top of the covers, but now shoulder to shoulder with her.

 

“Understandable,” he said. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 

“I am. I mean it. It’s just--I’ve just had a long week.”

 

“It seems like it. I’m serious about you staying here for a bit.”

 

“But not a whole week, Martin. That’s way too long. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

 

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea. And you’re not going by yourself either.”

 

“Two days?”

 

He glanced down at her out of the corner of his eye. “Five days.”

 

“Four days. And you can’t stop me from going by myself and you know it. If you say no I’ll just go alone tomorrow.”

 

He didn’t say anything for a while, the silence stretching between their breaths, and for a moment she thought for sure Martin would refuse her and order her under guard for the next week until she saw the line of his jaw relax and heard his deep exhalation. 

 

“Fine, you she-devil,” he grumbled. “Four days. And Baurus is going with you. And, if you refuse to go to the chapel to see a healer, you have to let me take a look at you before you head out.”

 

“Fine,” she agreed, then tilted her head up to smile at him. He scoffed.

 

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m only doing this under extreme duress,” he teased her. 

 

Again, they fell into silence, and the whispers of falling snow filtered into the room from the darkened clouds outside. Her eyes drifted over to the window, the violet sky barely visible, with only the imprints of water droplets against the glass pane as evidence the outside world even existed. The warmth of the room floated around her, soaking her, and the air was dry and fragranced with cloves and pine and home and Martin smelled like grass and bread and  _ sunshine _ \--

 

“Martin,” she began, her head twisting back over to the Imperial. “Can I ask you something?”

 

She caught the startled expression on his face before it smoothed over and he nodded. “Of course,” he breathed. 

 

“Why do you care about me?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Why do you care about me? I mean, I know we’re friends, but why?”

 

“Besides the fact you saved my life and have continued to help keep me safe?”

 

“Well, I mean, I could argue that that’s completely selfish since you being alive essentially keeps the world safe and I’m  _ in _ the world, so…”

 

“It’s a good thing I’m not counting that, then, isn’t it?” he asked, shaking his head but smiling at her all the same. “You’re a good person,” he decided.

 

She shook her head and released a shuddering breath and she sank down from the headboard, pulling the covers up to her neck. “I’m not,” she said. “Not really. I’m really not.”

 

“Well, then I suppose I’ve just grown fond of you and you’ll have to live with that.” He huffed. “You’re a remarkable woman,” he stated. “You’ve done amazing things most would never be able to accomplish. Perhaps you’ve done things you’re not proud of--” she snorted “--but you have done so much good already. You have faced things that few of us ever will, and it hasn’t broken you down.” At the lift of her brow, he scowled. “Earlier doesn’t mean anything. You’re allowed to need time to step back, and I should have insisted on it sooner.”

 

“I wouldn’t have listened.”

 

“Which is exactly why I should have.”

 

Felicienne nodded, then leant over to place her head on his shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Martin Septim,” she murmured, her lids drooping over her icy irises. She distantly felt his shoulder shiver, for just a moment, before resuming its rhythmic rise and fall with the man’s breath. 

 

“Am I?” she heard him question.

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“How so?”

 

She shrugged, feeling as though everything were quite distant from her. “You just are,” she mumbled. “But you shouldn’t sleep so close to anything daedric,” she admonished, her voice only just reaching his ears. “It can’t be good for you.”

  
  
  


He looked towards his armoire, then back down at the top of the brunette’s head. He moved to reach his hand to stroke the soft strands there, but stopped short, feeling her sweet, even breath brush the material of his robes. He let his hand fall and sighed, settling back against the headboard and wall and looked back over to his armoire, and bit the inside of his cheek. He breathed in, filling his lungs and he felt the strain against his ribs and the pounding of his heart against his sternum, but stayed where he was, Felicienne’s warmth leaning against him in the quiet room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful feedback on my last chapter! Your comments and kudos always bring a smile to my face and absolutely make my day. This chapter's posted a little early this time because this weekend is absolutely packed for me, and I'm trying to get an original writing project off the ground; one that's been baking in my brain for several years now. But don't worry, I'm still committed to this series and its sequel, which I'm actively working on as well. I also have various side stories that fit into this universe but not necessarily with the story itself. 
> 
> And, as always, watch me be an idiot at **silencebrulant.tumblr.com** and for updates on this series and subsequent works.


	18. The Echoes of Asphodel

Sharp raps against a wooden door filled the vestibule in front of the emperor’s chambers as the sun broke over the horizon. 

 

“By the Nine, Martin,” Felicienne grumbled. “It’s Day Four, so come on. Check me over. I was ready to go two days ago. Tiber Septim’s armor isn’t going to retrieve itself, you know.”

 

Baurus chuckled as he watched the little Breton shout through the Emperor’s bedroom door. 

 

“You’re keeping Baurus waiting, too!”

 

“Don’t drag me into this,” the Redguard said. “This isn’t my issue. You’re the one raring to put is both in danger,” he teased. 

 

Felicienne ignored him and went back to haranguing Martin through his door, which suddenly swung open to reveal the Imperial, with dark circles under his eyes and knotted hair, and his robe wrinkled. 

 

“For the love of Akatosh, woman,” Martin scolded. “A simple knock would suffice.”

 

“But I did knock,” she insisted. “I knocked three times and heard nothing. I was beginning to think you might have died.”

 

“You did?”

 

“Fine, you caught me; I didn’t really think you’d  _ died _ exactly--”

 

“No, I mean, you knocked earlier?”

 

She nodded. “I was trying to be nice, but apparently you sleep more deeply than I thought.”

 

“No, I’m sorry, I just didn’t sleep all that well.”

 

The girl fixed him with a long look, mouth pursed, and glanced over his shoulder into the darkened room before moving her gaze back to him. “Didn’t sleep well?” she asked, and Baurus heard a certain tightness to her tone.

 

“Alright, alright,” Martin muttered. “Let’s take a look at you; we’ll go out to the hearth and check you out there.”

 

She nodded, scowling, with her arms crossed in front of her. 

 

The whole process took less than ten minutes and Martin declared her fit to travel. She stuck her tongue out at him and he rolled his eyes. 

 

Baurus let out a breath, shoulders slumping as the stiffness drained from him. He’d been worried about the tension between the two that had become obvious within the past week, particularly with Felicienne’s demeanor, which, while she had always been a bit on the cynical side, seemed downright morbid during her most recent stay at the temple. 

 

It drove Martin to distraction, which set the mood for the Blades. Even Jauffre had taken to giving the Emperor a wide berth during that period. The Imperial had--essentially--kept Felicienne in his room while he often slept in the barracks with the other Blades or he fell asleep while working on is research. He had finally relented to letting her leave his chambers and start sleeping in there himself again just last night, and Baurus thought that it had more to do with Felicienne threatening to leave in the middle of the night if she wasn’t allowed to at least move around, that she’d had enough bed rest and was going out of her mind.

 

Baurus was not inclined to disagree with her assessment. 

 

“Alright, good,” she told the Imperial. “I’m all packed up, Baurus is all packed up, Jauffre has already briefed us on the horrors that are in Sancre Tor. I think we’re good to go.”

 

“So ready to get us killed,” Baurus joked, elbowing her.

 

She sniffed and looked up at him. “I can go alone.”

 

“No you cannot,” Martin scolded. “Sancre Tor is far too dangerous.”

 

“Martin,” she said, glaring. “I’ve been to Dagon’s plane of Oblivion. That place is an actual death trap where everything wants to kill and eat you. I’ve been in a place that was actually called The Blood Feast. I think I can handle a cursed tomb.”

 

“Be that as it may,” he said, “I would feel more comfortable if you took someone with you this time. And Baurus has already agreed to it.”

 

“Indeed I have,” the Blade said. 

 

Felicienne huffed but didn’t argue. 

 

“Just--just be careful. The both of you. Don’t take unnecessary risks. I mean it,” Martin added when he saw Felicienne open her mouth. “This is already dangerous enough. I have no idea what you’ll face inside.”

 

“Martin,” she groused. “Everything is going to be fine. I think we can handle a few undead.”

 

Martin sighed, looking at Baurus who shrugged back to him. “Both of you stay safe,” the Imperial said, walking with them out to the courtyard. 

 

“Everything will be fine, Your Majesty,” the Blade assured the other man. “I promise.”

 

The monarch nodded and watched them leave until they were out of sight as the horizon began to turn rose-hued and bright. 

 

* * *

 

They had been walking the same winding path in the Jerall Mountains to where Sancre Tor was indicated to be for what felt like hours. It had taken a good couple of days to get there; hitching a ride on a caravan didn’t shave off quite that much time, and she tilted her head to peer up at the sky and saw that Magnus was hanging rather low, and she frowned. She didn’t want to camp out again when they were so close. 

 

“So,” she heard the Redguard start from behind her, “you going to tell me what’s been going on with you?” he asked. 

 

She shrugged. “Nothing really,” she mumbled.

 

“If you say so,” he hummed. 

 

After a moment, she looked at him. “That’s it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not going to keep going? Pry? Coerce? Anything? That’s it?”

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“Well,” she said, stopping for a second and running her hand through her hair. “Not really. I guess I’m just surprised.”

 

Her companion laughed as they resumed their walk. “I figure you’ll tell me if you want to. I’m not going to pry into your personal life. If you have one,” he teased. 

 

She shot him a glare that she softened with a wink and folded her arms behind her head. “I’m just preoccupied. Plus, it’s not exactly like this has all been a walk in the park, and I guess I’ve just been reexamining my life choices. Like why did I come to Cyrodiil instead of Skyrim, or literally anywhere else,” she laughed. “I had to arrive in Cyrodiil and get wrapped up in assassination plots and daedra when I really just wanted to make a new home for myself. Instead, I opened a big bottle of crazy I can’t stopper.”

 

“Maybe consider that the next time you decide to move.”

 

“Ha. Ha.”

 

They fell silent for some time, walking amongst the mountainside as the air grew crisp and daylight began to fail. The ruin loomed ahead of them, now in view, and Felicienne came to a full stop and held her hand up for Baurus to do the same. 

 

“What is it?” he asked her.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said while she exhaled, “but I don’t want you to go inside with me.”

 

“I can’t do that,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “Martin practically ordered me to be with you for this. And I gave my word.”

 

“I don’t care. I can’t have you in there with me. It’ll be dangerous, and I don’t want to have to worry about you getting hurt.”

 

“I could say the same thing,” he reasoned.

 

She turned around, blue pools blazing and cheeks flushed, with cold or anger, and she bit out, “Please, Baurus, just--just listen to me, alright? I can’t have you in there with me.” She huffed and rubbed her hands over her face. “Help me get in, but please, wait outside for me. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

 

“Felicienne…”

 

“I’m serious, goddamn it,” she snapped. “I won’t be able to concentrate,” she insisted, her voice growing more and more shrill and he finally held up his hands towards her.

 

“Fine, I won’t. But if you die in there, Martin’ll probably have me executed,” the man grumbled.

 

“No he won’t. Why would he? It’d be my own damn fault.”

 

He stared at her for a moment, frowning, and opened and closed his mouth several times before shaking his head. “Never mind,” he breathed. 

 

“Alright, and besides, if there’s anything that I’m really good at, it’s keeping myself alive.”

 

“Yeah, but not keeping yourself out of trouble.”

 

“But I’m great at getting out of it.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Just, do me a favor and try not to get yourself killed in there. Otherwise, my death will be on your hands.”

 

“Yours wouldn’t be the first,” he heard her mumble and saw her gaze flicker off to the side. 

 

He frowned. “What?”

 

She snapped her head back to him, eyes wide. “What?”

 

When she didn’t appear inclined to anything further, and instead she turned around to continue walking to their destination, he fell into step behind her, the only sound between them the crunching of dead leaves and twigs and the scrape of their boots against an ill-maintained road. As Sancre Tor grew larger and larger she turned back to him.

 

“It’s been a weird month,” she grumbled, breaking the silence. “Sorry if I’ve been cross.”

 

“I think we’ve all been a little off lately. The sooner we can get this Dagon business taken care of, the sooner we can wash our hands of it and go back to our lives.”

 

She just grimaced, her lips stretched across her face, bloodless, and she nodded. They stopped a few yards away from the ruin, seeing the moss and ivy that had taken over the walls since it fell into disuse, and the creaking of bones grinding against each other could be heard drifting through the evening air and she huffed. 

 

“Great,” she said under her breath. “Well,” she turned to him, “this is me.”

 

“Why don’t I help you clean out those skeletons so you don’t die before even getting in there?”

 

Felicienne grinned at him. “If you insist.”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been some hours now that Baurus was left to wait outside, sitting on cold damp grass, while his friend went dungeon diving into an old, cursed ruin where the restless souls of tormented Blades agents and countless other undead roamed its halls. And he had just left her. In the middle of the night. 

 

Martin was going to kill him. He probably wouldn’t even bother to sentence him to execution. He’d kill him with his bare hands. And Baurus would have to let him. It didn’t matter what Felicienne said; he could tell Martin all day long that she insisted she go alone, and he would still kill the Blade if anything happened to her. He sighed and buried his face in his hands, metal digging into the skin there.

 

Felicienne could be so stupid. 

 

He heard nothing, just silence, emanating from the tomb, though he supposed that could just be a testament to the sturdy construction of the walls and not an indication of mortal peril. 

 

But it could be.

 

The pit that had begun to manifest in his stomach grew larger and larger, and he began to tap the tops of his thighs with his gauntleted hands, fingers making clinking sounds that echoed in the overgrown courtyard as he did so. He glanced up at the sky and saw that Masser and Secunda were setting in the distance, so it must have been around three or four in the morning, meaning she had been down in there for at least six hours already.

 

He was going crazy. He should have gone in with her. Why had he let her talk him out of it? 

 

He thought back to when they first met, him guarding the late Uriel Septim VII and Felicienne as a scruffy, roughed-up prisoner who wound up in the wrong cell at the wrong time. She had surprised all of them with her ability to navigate through the bowels of the Imperial Subterrane and fending off those Mythic Dawn assassins. Hard to imagine that was only six months ago. 

 

He put his face in his hands again. She would be fine, he told himself. She had a drive to live, as she’d shown in the Imperial Prison and again when she came back from the Dagon Shrine at Lake Arrius. She would prove it again here. 

 

She had to.

 

His eyes burned, and blinking was like dragging sandpaper over them and he pressed the heels of his palms into them, stifling a yawn that threatened to crawl out of his mouth. He sat up straight and leaned his head back against the wall behind him, feeling the chill of the stone on the back of his neck and the way the moss there caught on some of his hairs, tugging at them. His lids slid shut, listening for any sound that might tell him what was going on, but the only thing he heard was the wind through the courtyard and the sound of cicadas that were beginning to emerge. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Outside of Cheydinhal, Lucien, once again, found himself pacing in his sleeping chambers. He had, in truth, thought his Silencer might have arrived back to Cheydinhal by this time. He thought incorrect, apparently. 

 

The Imperial scoffed. It was likely that her continued absence could be attributed to whatever work she did with the Empire since she was in such a hurry to leave for it in the first place. She needed to be back soon; she had dead drops that needed fulfilling and her shirking her duty was beginning to wear thin on him. 

 

The notion she might not come back had crossed his mind. He glanced towards his bed and let his shoulders hunch forward, bowing under the stress of the last few months. He made his way towards the mattress and reclined on it, letting his head rest against the wall.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to completely change the linens. He would have to; every time he laid down clover and moon sugar overwhelmed him, and he had taken to leaving the fort more frequently to walk along the darkened roads of Cheydinhal. He avoided the abandoned house after he and Mathieu disposed of what was left of their former family members and now all that was left was a skeleton and rat patrolling an empty hall. 

 

Lucien let out a sigh. It had to be done. There had been no avoiding it at that point, and Felicienne was fortunate enough that she’d escaped their fates. In time she would see that. He’d make her. He wondered what she did when she was not in Cheydinhal, with Antoinetta.

 

With him. 

 

He’d only been able to glean that she was somehow involved with the Blades and with the last Septim heir. Details had been scant. Understandable, given the circumstances, but it unsettled him that finding information about her was so difficult. Much like when they first met, she was rather good at keeping her life hidden. He never had to think about these matters with any of the other family members.

 

He frowned. What did she do up in Bruma?

 

He felt a twinge in his chest that he swallowed against. She was a capable woman; she’d proven as much during her time with him. He imagined the future emperor might have found a similar use for her. 

 

Lucien ignored the burning that roiled in his stomach at the thought of what similar use that might be. He clenched his jaw.

 

He would send a letter to Bruma. She was still his Silencer.

 

* * *

 

  
  


Baurus jolted when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. He blinked at the light, squeezing his eyes as they teared.

 

“Hey, idiot, wake up,” Felicienne said. “Did you sleep here the whole night? While I was down there fighting goddamn ghosts and spectres of former Blades? Risking life and limb for the empire? Again? Seriously?”

 

“Oh thank the Nine you’re alright,” he said, crushing her to him. He felt her stiffen in his arms and grabbed her even tighter.

 

“Do we hug now? Wow. Okay,” she said, bringing her hands up around him and patting him on the shoulder. “Can--can you let go now? I’m fine, Baurus, really. I was just teasing. I got the armor. We can go back now. Please let me go.”

 

He dropped his arms and let out a small laugh when she stumbled a bit before being able to right herself. “I’m just...relieved,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have let you bully me into staying outside.”

 

“Well, I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be,” she said, glancing down at the ground and shuffling her feet. 

 

“Uh huh.” He faced her, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you can be.”

 

“But,” she drawled, “we can get headed back now. Unless you want to try to get to Chorrol and crash for the day, then head out on a trading caravan?”

 

“You know, I’ll leave that up to you since you ‘risked life and limb’ again for the Empire,” he said, laughing. 

 

“Then we’re definitely going to Chorrol. I didn’t get to sleep unlike some of us. But you can do one thing for me,” she said, helping him up to his feet. 

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You can carry the armor.” And she smiled up at him.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived back to Cloud Ruler, tired and sore, and some days later, but successful. Martin’s posture, upon him seeing the both of them, relaxed. 

 

“I see you made it back in one piece,” he said, smiling at Felicienne.

 

“Sure did,” she piped. “Baurus wouldn’t leave me alone for a moment. Damned annoying, is what he was. I could have handled it by myself,” she told him, glancing back towards the Redguard, who stood near the door blinking at her, his gaze flickering back and forth between Felicienne and Martin, and she again looked at Martin. “I’m not going to lie, though, I think I’ve had enough of haunted tombs for awhile now.” 

 

“So you have the armor, then?” the Imperial asked.

 

Felicienne hummed and nodded, grinning, and Baurus presented his burden to the other man. 

 

“Wonderful,” he breathed. “I can take a scraping when we’re ready for the ritual.”

 

“Any more luck with the research?” 

 

“Not yet, I’m afraid. This next portion is something unrelated to the first two; which I suppose makes sense since the first two items needed are the counterpoint to each other. I believe I’ll at least find the same is the case with the next two items needed. Although,” he mused, “I had hoped to have more accomplished, but as you can see,” he motioned behind him, towards two of the tables that had now been buried beneath different tomes, “I’ve had to pull more resources. I’ve even had to request a few special orders from outside of Cyrodiil.”

 

Felicienne let out a low whistle, eyes gliding over the various books and scrolls; she couldn’t imagine doing the kind of work Martin was doing. She saw, from the corner of her eye, Baurus make his way around them and head back towards the armory, probably to drop off Tiber Septim’s cuirass for safe-keeping, she thought.

 

“I’m hoping to have something for you in the next week or so. Preferably sooner,” the Imperial said to her. Then his eyes widened and he held a hand up. “Before I forget,” he paused, heading back towards his usual table and rifled through a couple of the books there and pulled a small letter out. “This came for you. A courier from town dropped this off. I said I would give it to you,” he stated, holding the note to her.

 

Her face fell upon receiving it and she nodded. 

 

“Is everything alright?” he asked. She nodded again as she pried the wax seal away from the parchment. 

 

The Breton flipped the folds open and her eyes scanned the message, written in neat, block manuscript. The brunette let out a small sigh and tucked the note into her pack. “I have to leave tomorrow morning. I meant to stay longer, but something’s come up,” she said, frowning. 

 

Martin knit his brow and stepped closer to her. “You can’t keep running around like this; it’s not good for you.”

 

“I’ll take it a little easier this time, promise. Besides, I already feel better than I did when I first got here. I guess I needed those four days.”

 

He exhaled, his frown deepening as he crossed his arms in front of himself. “Now I know you’re trying to butter me up. You would never admit I might have been right.”

 

She scoffed. “Shows how well you know me,” she laughed at him. “I know when to pick my battles.” The girl looked up at him, a wistful smile floating over her face, “I really do need to leave as soon as I can. Business,” she admitted. “It can’t be helped. If I’m not back in enough time, and you find something, you know where you can reach me.”

 

The Imperial nodded, and she saw his fingers twitch at his sides. “I’m optimistic I’ll have something soon,” he reiterated. 

 

“And it’ll probably be something just as out of the way and inconvenient as the others were, too.”

 

“I can’t imagine that there would be any time that making a portal to another dimension should be easy,” he commented wryly. She tried to hide a yawn behind her palm and he brought his hand to her shoulder. “If you’re leaving tomorrow morning,” he said, “you should go head on to bed.”

 

“Fine, father.”

 

He scowled at her as she laughed and nearly ran to the barracks. 

  
  
  


She left before the sun rose the next morning.

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


Once again Felicienne found herself climbing down the cold metal rungs to Lucien’s hideout in Fort Farragut some days later. The Speaker had not explicitly stated that she should arrive in a timely manner, so she felt that he deserved to wait a bit. When she slipped down into the surprisingly cozy chambers, she found the Imperial lounging on his bed, in his plain clothes, flipping through a book. 

 

“Took you long enough. I sent that letter to you a week ago,” his voice cut.

 

“I--I know. I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I had some loose ends to take care of before I could leave. 

 

He fixed her with a stare, his dark eyes roving over her face and she swallowed, feeling her throat bob up and down. She saw his eyes follow the movement and she fought against repeating the action. 

 

“Did you need something from me?” she queried.

 

“Perhaps I merely wanted your company.”

 

She let out a laugh, startling herself with its echo clinging to her ears. He sat up and began to make his way towards her and she had to stop herself from taking a step back. When he stood in front of her, he rested his hands on her shoulders. They sat there, not digging or grinding, just resting, the heat of them rolling over her. She tilted her head up, feeling color bloom on her cheeks and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. He moved one of his hands up to her jaw, stroking it with the back of his hand. She opened her mouth.

 

“Lucien?” she breathed.

 

“I...regret the way I behaved towards you before you left. I should not have taken my mood out on you the way I did,” he stated. “I understand that the Purification was difficult for you, and that you might have wanted some time away. At least,” he interrupted himself, “that was what I originally thought, but it seems as though you have made friends in some very high places,” he drawled.  

 

She paled as his grip grew tighter. “What do you mean?”

 

“Do not play stupid, Felicienne, it does not become you,” he growled, and pulled her into him, placing a kiss on the crown of her head, and she felt him breathe in, the motion tickling her. “The Blades? Really? Is that the business you’ve had to take care of this past half-year?”

 

She nodded, not seeing the point in hiding it. 

 

“And friends with the last heir to the throne, hmm?” he murmured into her hair. 

 

Again, she nodded. 

 

“No wonder you’ve been so busy,” he hummed. “What use has he for you?”

 

She shivered when his arm came around her waist, his other hand curling in her hair. Her gaze flitted to his neck, the dip where it met his collarbone, and she sighed, watching her breath disturb the linen shirt he wore. “Why are you like this with me?” she asked him in turn, and felt his arm tighten around her.

 

“Like what?” he intoned.

 

“Like--like this. You know what I’m saying,” she tried, her voice rising in pitch, but not volume. 

 

“Perhaps I do not. How am I with you?”

 

“You--you enjoy intimidating me,” the girl accused, and felt him chuckle against her hair.

 

“And what makes you say that?”

 

She spluttered and tried to step back, but when she did he just held her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gripping it hard enough to bruise. She winced. And he brought her mouth to his. The girl wilted into him, supported by little held but him, and he glided his hand from her chin, up her jawline, and into her hair again, opening her lips with his tongue.

 

He pulled back by millimeters and whispered against her lips. “I really did miss you, you know.”

 

Her eyes widened, before fluttering shut as he kissed her again. He pulled away and he stared at her swollen mouth.

 

“Did you miss me?” he questioned.

 

Felicienne bit her lip, swallowing, and her gaze wandered, before she nodded, face aflame. “I did,” she confirmed when no response from Lucien was forthcoming. “I really did.”

 

He murmured, “Good girl.” He was silent for some time, holding her and petting her hair, and she pressed herself a little bit more against him. While his hands tangled in her dark locks, he kissed the top of her head again. “You understand,” he said between kisses, “that, in my way, I care for you,” he admitted. 

 

She nodded into his neck and inhaled that wood-spice and blood that always lingered around him. She felt him chuckle. 

 

“Don’t become too lax,” he chastised, still petting her, but now working the buckles on her armor as well. “I will have some work for you very soon.” Her cuirass finally gave way and his slid it from her body and down her arms and melded her form to him, stroking up and down her lightly clothed back. “But we can discuss that later.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, new update. Possibly a little rushed; I was editing this and Chapter 17 at the same time, because....it's my birthday this weekend and there's a trip planned, on top of work, and on top of family coming from out of state. So...I thought I wouldn't be able to make my normal update schedule. Any mistakes in here are mine, as you all know. I try to go over everything, but I miss stuff sometimes. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Feedback is always welcome :)


	19. Still the Same Rough Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm back. It was a crazy couple of weeks for me irl, but I'm back and will continue to post regularly until this story is finished. I can't believe it's almost finished; I'm kind of sad about it. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who left their wonderful and kind comments and kudos; they really do just make my day <3 I'm so happy you've all been enjoying Felicienne's journey through Cyrodiil. 
> 
> You can keep up with my update schedule and general shenanigans at silencebrulant.tumblr.com

Scowling and grumbling underneath her breath, Felicienne entered Chorrol a couple weeks later, as First Seed began to thaw the once-wintry air, and the scent of tender green shoots in the trees fragranced the atmosphere. She’d had the misfortune of being ordered to kill a necromancer who was trying to attain immortality by transforming into a lich of all things. 

 

She cringed. 

 

To top it off, she’d received a letter from Martin when she had checked in one last time with Mariana before heading to Leafrot and to Celedean, and now she had to both check for her dead drop in Chorrol--in the middle of the town square of all places, for gods’ sake Lucien--and find a Great Welkynd Stone in a place called Miscarcand. And carry out whatever orders Lucien had for her in Chorrol. 

 

Felicienne wondered what her life had become in half a year.

 

There were too many men, she decided. Too many men. She started to think that the Mazken and Auriel had the right idea.

 

“Nothing but men,” Felicienne muttered, laughing and nodding, and she noticed that a couple of the townsfolk cast quick glances at her, speeding along past her. She shrugged and headed towards the large oak indicated in her last note from Lucien. Grabbing the lip of the sack and wrenching it open, she fished out the gold she had--in her humble opinion--more than earned and unfolded another one of Lucien’s letters, blue eyes roving the surface and mouthing along with the words written down. 

 

When she finished, she folded the letter up, stuffed it into her pack, put her face in her hands, and let out a muffled scream, startling several nearby birds and passersby, including one tall Altmer woman in front of the Mages’ Guild hall who--after jumping--turned to glare at the Breton. 

 

She needed to get the Welkynd Stone, but now she also had to travel up near Bruma again, while the Stone was, apparently, close to Skingrad. The girl cursed the Draconis family for pissing off the wrong person and causing her no small amount of grief. She braced one hand on the bench in front of her and hopped over the back, coming to sit on it with her knees tucked under her and considered her options. While neither was exactly close, Lucien’s letter said to go to Skingrad after she completed the contract, so she could, if so inclined, go to Miscarcand on the way there, or afterward. A few more days couldn’t really hurt anything. Oblivion Gates were already popping up anyway. They weren’t going anywhere. 

She let out a hum and tilted her head back. 

 

Felicienne peered through the oak’s branches, the sunlight breaking through the leaves, making them glow, and dappled the ground where she stood. Magnus floated high above Nirn and if she left right now on Shadowmere, she could be at Applewatch by the next day. 

 

When this was over, she was taking a long vacation. Maybe she’d take off to Summerset, maybe she’d go back to the Isles. Maybe she’d just rent a room in a tavern and scream into her pillow.

 

Anything was possible. 

 

* * *

 

 

Felicienne shivered and huddled in on herself, leaning down into Shadowmere’s neck, and wound her arms around it, absorbing as much heat as she could from the horse’s body when she looked up and saw a small farmstead appear through the snowfall. She brought Shadowmere up to the fence surrounding the property around the modest home, and hopped off, wrapping her cloak tighter against her form, and she pulled the hood up from where it fell during the freak snowstorm that blew in from Skyrim. She approached the door of the home, and knocked three times in quick succession. 

 

After several minutes, with Felicienne not-quite pressing her ear against the door, an old woman poked her head outside and scowled at the girl she found there. 

 

“Who are you and what do you want?”

 

Felicienne cleared her throat and smiled. “Perennia Draconis?”

 

The woman’s frown softened, but did not evaporate completely. “Yes, and who is asking.”

 

“I’m, er, I’m looking for your children,” she grinned, shifting her weight from foot to foot and rubbing a hand behind her neck.

 

Perennia’s expression brightened and she opened the door wider. “Oh come in, come in. I’m so sorry; you startled me a bit. My nerves get so rattled these days,” she laughed. “You must be the courier. Are you here to pick up my gift list?”

 

A beat passed, with Felicienne’s eyes wide and her gnawing her lip before she broke out into a grin. “Yes, yes I am. I apologize. I should have introduced myself.”

 

“Thank Talos,” Perennia said, still chuckling. “My children are spread throughout Cyrodiil, so it’s been next to impossible to shop for them all. Here,” she reached into the folds of her skirt and handed Felicienne a piece of parchment, “you’ll find there names, locations, and suggested gifts on here. And take this,” and she handed a purse to the girl. “You’ll get the other half when the gifts are delivered, as per our agreement.”

 

Felicienne looked at the list, reading its contents and nodded. “Yeah, wow, this is perfect. Thank you so much. This’ll make my job loads easier.” She glanced back up to the Imperial and sighed. Her eyes wandered around the small house, spying a sleeping dog in the corner, near the hearth and nodded. 

 

“Is--is there anything else I can do for you?” Perennia questioned, lips turning down into a frown, her brows furrowed.

 

“Yeah, I suppose there is,” she muttered. “I just want you to know, I don’t feel good about this. If I could get away without it, I would. Believe me.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I just want to say that I’m really sorry for this,” she told her before sliding her dagger out and stabbing the old woman between the ribs, blood spilling over Felicienne’s fingers and soaking her sleeve. Perennia gave a gurgle before slumping against the Breton. She slid her blade out and wiped it on the woman’s shirt before lowering her down to the ground, looking back up to find the dog still asleep. 

 

She blew her breath out through tight lips and when she left, she kept the door open before hopping back up onto Shadowmere and riding off, heading towards the Imperial City, Talos Plaza District. 

 

* * *

 

A week and a half later, and Felicienne collapsed onto a bed in the Imperial Bridge inn after finishing up with Sibylla Draconis and her pack of fucking wild animals. She winced when she aggravated a cut on her side from a wolf that had gotten through her leathers. She had had a few potions on her, but they were weak and only took care of the more major injuries she had sustained during the altercation. She sat up and began to strip off her armor, taking care not the jostle her limbs too much.

 

She was down to her small clothes when she felt a tingle drip down her skin and her hair stood on end. 

 

“That last one did a number on you, did it?” she heard.

 

She jumped and moved her arms to cover herself, pushing her breasts together, before she slumped back down when Lucien revealed himself to her in full robes, cowl obscuring his face.

 

“How do you do that? How did you even get in here?” she interrogated him, her voice pitchy and trembling as she attempted to slow her breathing. “Why on Nirn do you even do that?”

 

“I like how you look when I ‘do that,’” he told her with a smirk on his face while he leered at her. “Reminds me of when I met you.”

 

She scowled. “Were you following me? I’m headed to Skingrad tomorrow after I get some sleep. As you’ve noticed, I’m injured.”

 

He moved to crouch down in front of her and pried her arms away from her torso, holding her biceps in strong hands, fingers gripping the flesh there. She swallowed and let out another shuddering breath and let her lips tug up at the corners, looking at him through lowered lashes. “You scared me,” she admitted. 

 

“I know,” he murmured and leaned into her. 

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Perhaps I wanted to see you.”

 

“And you knew I’d be here?”

 

“I’ll always be able to find you, sweetheart.”

 

Her eyes widened a fraction and he released one of her arms and placed a finger under her chin, tilting her face up so she met his gaze. He placed a light kiss on her cheek and she started, causing him to chuckle and he stroked her face when he pulled away. 

 

“I was on my way back from Skingrad, and I saw you entering the inn. I came in right behind you.” He kissed her again, on her mouth this time, before he drew back and frowned at her. “You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” he chastised. “I do enjoy how easy it makes things for me, but I’m not the only who could sneak up on you.”

 

“I can take care of myself,” she argued, face hot. 

 

He hummed and nodded to her. “Of course you can, dearest.”

 

She pouted. “Don’t patronize me. You know I can.”

 

He eyed her, trailing his hand down her neck and over her collarbone, drifting down her sternum and moving to cup her breast. He moved in to nuzzle her throat. “You can indeed,” he murmured against her skin. 

 

She shivered again, heart pounding behind her chest as his grip on her arm grew tighter. She hissed at the sharp pain that shot up the limb from the purpling bruise he clasped and she felt him smile. The Imperial pushed her back onto the bed and she let him climb on top of her, savoring the sensation of his heavy body pressing against hers.

 

“I really did want to see you,” he mumbled while he peppered kisses across her clavicle. 

 

She whimpered when she felt his hand move from her breast and down her stomach, over her hip and cupped her womanhood. The Breton opened her legs and he settled between them, his hardness digging into her. 

 

“You couldn’t have,” she gasped, “dropped off my new contract here?”

 

He chuckled. “I told you, I already dropped it off in Skingrad.”

 

“Would have saved me a trip,” she grumbled, ending on a moan when his hand slipped inside of her underwear, pushing his fingers into her. She bit her lip as they worked in and out of her, and she wrapped her thighs around his waist. 

 

“You’re so wet already,” he groaned. “And did you miss me?” And he dug his thumb into her clit, causing her to cry out.

 

“Yes!” she panted. “For the love of gods, yes.” 

 

He grinned at her and pressed his mouth against hers once again. 

 

* * *

 

 

He left long before the sun rose, she assumed so he could get back to Farragut before he lost the cover of darkness. Her body ached, and she felt tacky and sore inside, feeling his seed run down her thighs. She clenched them together, muscles tense, and sat up in her bed. She’d only slept for a couple hours with Lucien, but she doubted she would be able to get back to sleep. She dragged herself out of bed, hips protesting the movement, the joints between her thigh and pelvis burning when she stood, and she poured some of the water from the pitcher that was left in her room into the bowl on her dresser and washed herself off with the flannel provided as best she could. She dropped the now sullied cloth into the clouded water and rummaged through her pack when her fingers encountered something cold and hard. Opening it up and casting a starlight spell, she found two decent health potions. 

 

She gave a soft smile and unstoppered one of them and drained it, her aches evaporating after she swallowed the last drop. 

 

* * *

 

 

Felicienne ignored the looks being given to her by the Skingrad Castle guards as she leaned into the well in the courtyard, fishing out the parcel Lucien left for her. She pocketed the gold and read the note. She frowned; Lucien must have written this in a hurry. It wasn’t as neat as it normally would be. 

 

Shrugging, she noticed she would have to travel to Bruma for this next job, which suited her just as well since she would be able to fulfill it on her way to Cloud Ruler once she got the Welkynd Stone. She wasn’t exactly in a hurry to fight a Khajiit who could, in all possibility, rip her face open. 

 

Although, there wasn’t a true guarantee that wouldn’t happen in Miscarcand. 

 

And she still had to head over there. 

 

She sighed. 

 

On the bright side, the Ayleid ruin sat close to the city, but the major drawback was that, allegedly, the restless spirit of the King of Miscarcand roamed the damn place and would probably be pretty pissed with her breaking into his home. At least she had made sure she packed all of the provisions she would need, and repaired her armor from her last contract. The trip out would only take an hour, two at the most, and then she could head back to Bruma and Cloud Ruler and drop the damned Stone off. 

 

* * *

 

  
  


After several hours and undead and goblins, battered and bruised and in a phenomenally sour mood, Felicienne made it into the inner sanctum of Miscarcand. She saw the luminescent Stone sitting in the center, elevated on what appeared to be an altar. She looked around, and saw that the stairs leading up to it were collapsable, so she went about searching for a switch or a pressure plate. When she happened upon it, she pushed her weight against it and listened for the click and scrape of the steps activating. Once they reached the top of the platform, she nearly sprinted up them, and closed her hands around the Stone, feeling the radiant heat from its light settle in her palms and fingers, soothing the aches and burns from shooting so many fire and ice spells. She breathed a soft sigh, and placed the object inside of her satchel. 

 

It was at that moment that she heard several stones drag across each other and the creak and groan of bones and dessicated flesh flexing after many years of disuse. She cursed and ducked only moments before a bolt of lightning whizzed past her, singeing her hair and cheek. She turned, catching herself before she slipped down the steps and saw herself staring what she assumed was the former--or current, she supposed--King of Miscarcand. 

 

And his two zombie friends. 

 

What was that saying, she wondered, that misfortune happened in threes?

 

She raised both of her hands in front of her and shot a fireball towards the lich, knocking him back several feet and sliding down the steps, giving her time to summon one of her Golden Saints, who set after the two zombies with her battle axe, hacking at them until little remained.

 

Meanwhile, Felicienne blasted another fireball off at the undead king only to be struck in turn by a frostbolt, the burn seeping into her shoulder and collarbone. Her breath caught in her throat as the nerves there exploded and she aimed a charge of electricity towards him. The lich seemed to shake it off until her Aureal caught him on the side of the head with the back of her battle axe, giving Felicienne time to gather herself and release a small column of fire. This time it caught, sending flames running up his robes and clinging to him until he fell to the ground. It wasn’t too long before his writhing stopped and he lay still, fire overcoming him. 

 

Her Golden Saint had disappeared--back to Oblivion, she imagined--and the Breton slumped against the altar, leaning her head against it, panting.

 

“That went easier than I thought it would,” she mumbled to herself when she caught her breath and her heart slowed down from its breakneck pace. Ozone hung in the air, clawing at the corners of the room, still charged with magicka and flames and decay, and she made her way down the steps and saw that another door had been opened. 

 

She hated Ayleid ruins. Fuck it. She hated Ayleids. She was glad they were gone.

 

Sadists.

 

Felicienne stepped through it and walked through a long, cold hallway and dust and mold stung her nose, pinching at her until she burst out the other side into the crisp air of Colovia. Night blanketed Cyrodiil, the only light available emanated from the stars, and the sign of the Lord floated above. She turned around, looking across the washed out golden fields and made a soft whistling sound between pursed lips, and heard that galloping hooves of Shadowmere who stopped in front of her and bent down, nuzzling the girl’s face. The Breton smiled and stroked the mare’s nose, before walking around to her side and hopping onto the saddle, her satchel secured to her back. 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time she arrived in Bruma, three days later, night had long since followed on the perpetually frosty town, and she, stepping lightly in the soft snow behind houses out of direct light, searched for J’Ghasta’s house, as had been indicated in Lucien’s note to her. Despite the change of weather in the rest of Cyrodiil with the coming of First Seed, Bruma remained chilled and quiet, and with the loss of Magnus the atmosphere dug into her armor and burrowed under her skin. 

 

She approached the house her note had indicated, and pressed her hands against the door, looking around her, and concentrated on the tumblers of the lock that sealed the house shut. When she felt the click tingle her palms, she pushed the door open and slipped inside. The room was still, the air thick and balmy, fire still roaring in the hearth. Someone was home.

 

Someone who must have been up here recently, she thought when she glanced back at the hearth. 

 

She searched the main room, finding nothing, but a haphazard pile of cloth caught her eye. She walked over to it and pushed the material aside, revealing a trap door. She opened it and saw that it led to a basement, and crept down the ladder, keeping her footsteps soft but wincing as the ladder creaked under her weight and movement.

 

“I would stop right there if I were you,” an accented voice broke the quiet of the evening. 

 

Felicienne froze, before slowing turning around and jumping the last couple of rungs to land on the ground. A shirtless Khajiit stood before her, arms crossed and ears pressed against his skull, a glare etched onto his face. She swallowed a couple times and took a deep breath. 

 

“Who are you to come into my home? I certainly don’t recall inviting skinny little Breton thieves here. Leave now, or we will have a serious problem here,” he demanded and his tail lashed behind him. 

 

“Can’t do that,” she muttered. “After all, Sithis was the one who invited me,” she quipped, giving the man a little shrug. 

 

His ears lifted and his frown deepened. J’Ghasta’s whiskers twitched and his golden eyes widened. “Sithis?” he questioned. “What is this treachery? Who sent you here? I do not know who is behind this outrage, but I will have blood.”

 

She took a small step back, hitting the ladder behind her as she processed his words. The note did tell her that he might suspect someone would try to kill him. 

 

It was a very specific guess.

 

“Do you have nothing to say, little assassin? That’s too bad,” he said, laughing. “I was hoping to at least know who sent you after me. Oh well.” Then he rushed her, catching her on the side of her head with his fist. 

 

Stars exploded behind her eyes and she went down with a thud, the wind knocked out of her and he was on top of her. He swung again, this time she was sure he cracked her cheekbone. She wriggled underneath him, trying to buck him off of her, icy tendrils gripping her heart as it struggled to break free from her chest. The Khajiit wrapped his hands around her neck then, squeezing, and she felt pressure building behind her eyes and nose, her vision going dark around the edges. Her hands felt light as she raised them to push against his chest, and she felt the vibrations in his chest as he laughed again.

 

“Weak as a kitten. Whoever sent you wasn’t very bright, were they?”

Her eyes tried to slide shut, and for a second she wanted to just let go. Everything was so far away, above the surface, and stripes of light decoration her eyelids as she sank deeper and deeper, her hands sliding down his chest before she let one rest against her own abdomen. Heat emanated from it, into her palm, and she pressed her hand against it, smiling, letting her last sigh escape her. 

 

Everything was so warm.

 

Then, she felt a jolt run up her spine and she released a bolt of electricity through her palm and into the Khajiit’s side, knocking him off of her. She raised herself onto her knees, coughing and drinking in gulps of air as tears rolled down her cheeks. She heard the man attempt to get up, and she shot a fireball at him that he failed to dodge in time, and she used the time to grab her dagger and pounce on him, not giving him an opening to try again, and brought the blade down into his chest, again and again, the blood soaking into her trousers and his fur, his chest a mangled mess of what it once was. 

 

She got off of him and cried, holding her stomach with bloodied hands while she attempted to get her breathing under control. She couldn’t go back to Cloud Ruler this way, couldn’t face Martin like this. 

 

Felicienne huddled against the wall, her knees up to her chest, and buried her face in her arms, feeling her shoulders shake and stomach roil, the heat of J’Ghasta’s blood seeping into her bones. Her pant legs stuck to her skin, and the metallic odor pinched her. She swallowed acid-saliva down her throat, melting the ice that coated it. 

 

* * *

 

 

The following morning her face still throbbed where J’Ghasta had struck her, and she knew she must look a fright, cheek swollen and lip split, but at least she had washed the blood out of her hair and off of her skin. She would have to clean her armor later, but she could always get that taken care of at the armory when she dropped off the Welkynd Stone to Martin. 

 

She ignored the startled glances of the townsfolk as she made her way out of the city, leaving Shadowmere in Wildeye Stables, desiring the walk up the winding road, the air a salve to her stinging flesh. The wind had died down during her trip, and all that was left were the silent snowflakes pirouetting down around her, whispering against the ground and sticking to each other. She opened her mouth and let out a long, soft exhale, and watched her crystallized breath float on the air, and she smiled. 

 

 

  
  


“What happened to you?” Jauffre asked, Martin standing next to him when she walked through the doors of the temple, and both men taking in her ruffled appearance.

 

“Miscarcand,” she muttered, gesturing towards her face. “Definitely cursed. I mean, it’s not anymore,” she laughed, “but it definitely was.” She walked over to the table, and flipped the lip of her satchel open and dug out the large, glowing stone she’d absconded from the ruin. “But I did get you both a present,” she teased, holding the Stone out for Martin to take a hold of. 

 

“Nice work,” he said. “This is perfect.”

 

“Good,” she groaned. “Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy to get this thing. It just had to be a 

_ Great  _ Welkynd Stone, didn’t it?”

 

Martin gave her a soft smile. “I’m not the one who wrote the book,” he chided. “If you

have a problem, you might want to take that up with Dagon.”

 

“Oh you trust me, I sure will. He’s going to get a piece of my mind.”

 

“I’ve no doubt.”

 

She glanced around the temple and asked, “Hey, where’s Baurus?”

 

Martin looked away and she heard Jauffre sigh.

 

“Oh gods, what happened?” she asked, face paling and she reached out grab Martin’s

arm. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Everything is fine,” Martin hurried to assure her. “It has to do with the last piece we

need before we can open the portal to Paradise.”

 

“What do you mean,” she said, the tension draining from her body and she brought her hand up to her face, rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to worry you. But we’re still ironing out the details. I will keep you updated as things progress.”

 

“Alright. That’s vague, but alright,” she ventured. “Do you need me to do anything else right now?”

 

Martin shook his head. “No, not for the moment.”

 

Felicienne nodded, then felt herself stumble. Martin reached out to steady her. 

 

“You need to rest. Please, at least sit down.”

 

She pulled herself away from him, laughing. “No, no, I’m fine. Promise. Just a little tired. It was a long trip. I have to get going to the Imperial City though, soon, so now is the last time to tell me you need anything,” she joked. 

 

When she looked up at him, she saw his face drawn into a frown, and she opened her mouth to tell him to stop or his face might freeze that way when she felt the room spin around her, and her stance faltered again. She heard Martin shout something when her vision went dark. 


	20. A Trail of Meadowsweet and Sheafs of Wheat

“You are seeing a healer. Now,” Martin demanded, glaring down at Felicienne who lay wrapped up in his bed covers, where she had woken up to Martin staring at her, his hands in constant motion, tugging at his clothes, smoothing his hair, rubbing his face, an endless loop of movement. 

 

“Martin, I’m fine,” she insisted, moving to sit up when she felt his hand push her back down against the mattress. 

 

“You are not fine. You passed out right in the middle of the hallway.”

 

“I’ve just been tired,” she said. When the hell did Martin get so strong, she wondered. 

 

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he said.

 

“At worst, I’ve picked up a case of ataxia, or rock joint,” she tried.

 

“And that’s all the more reason to see a healer.”

 

“If I’m so sick, why do you want me to go back down into town?” 

 

“I don’t,” he told her. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending one of the Blades down into Bruma to retrieve a healer from the chapel.” 

 

She pushed his hand off of her and got up, kneeling on the mattress, and spitting fire. “How could you?” she accused, her voice shrieking and he stepped back a fraction. “You can’t just make decisions for me.”

 

The Imperial set his jaw as he stared her back down. “I absolutely can when you refuse to take care of yourself. You’re lucky you fainted here, instead of somewhere on the road, or, gods’ forbid, inside an Oblivion Gate. What do you think would happen to you then? And what about the rest of us, those of us who depend on you to not put yourself in foolish situations. Like this,” he shouted. 

 

Felicienne flinched and lowered herself, ice coating her throat, and she felt her herself tear up and she blinked but felt them spill over her lashes, wetting her cheeks and she tasted the salt on her mouth when she darted her tongue out to moisten her lips. She felt the man sit down on the mattress and heard his sigh. The frost dissolved and she let out a choked sob, burying her face in her hands while her shoulders shook. His arm wrapped around her frame.

 

“I don’t know what has been going on in your mind, but you cannot neglect your well-being anymore. Just let them take a look at you. You’re probably just undernourished,” he assured her. “I can’t imagine with your appetite and the amount you travel that you’re eating enough. Just...just humor me, would you?” He pulled her in tighter. “I--I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you. Especially in the course of helping me. I can’t bear the thought of it,” he admitted. 

 

“Martin…” she sniffled, rubbing her hands over her face.

 

“Just do this for me. It’ll get me off of your back if nothing else,” he said. 

 

She nodded against his shoulder, her breath still shaking, and she sank into him, feeling his body temperature drench her form, and she turned towards him, shivering. His posture became rigid when she moved her arms around his waist, and she looked up at him. She found his blue eyes staring into her own, and she averted her gaze. 

 

His hand came up to her cheek and she flinched when it came into contact with the bruising there. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “They’ll look at that too.” 

 

His touch was light, barely skimming the surface of her face, and she felt his hand tremble against her. 

 

She pulled away. “You’re a good person, Martin Septim,” she breathed. “I don’t think I’ll ever know anyone like you as long as I live, you know?”

 

“I feel the same about you.”

 

She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, the palms facing her, and she fought down another bout of weeping, and she felt his arms wrap around her again, just holding her, as his hand rubbed up and down her back. 

 

The creak of the door broke them apart, and a Blade--Imperial--cleared his throat, looking anywhere but the two on the bed. 

 

“Pardon my intrusion,” the soldier started, “but the healer from the chapel has arrived. He’s waiting in the foyer.”

 

Martin nodded. “Good, send him in.” He turned back to Felicienne. “I’ll leave, but I expect you to be honest with him, alright?”

 

“Oh fine,” she sighed, giving him a small smile. “I’m sure he’ll tell me what I’ve been telling you this whole time. I’m just tired.”

 

“Good then, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Martin re-entered his room, when the healer had left, he found Felicienne sitting on the bed and staring at a corner in the room, face ashen and drawn and her eyes wide. The hollows of her cheek stood out in the lighting, and the shadows under her eyes seemed more prominent, though he was relieved to see the bruises on her face had been taken care of. She was holding her abdomen, occasionally caressing it and he watched her throat bob up and down as she swallowed.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

She jumped and snapped her head towards him, nodding. “Yeah,” she laughed, the pitchy exhalation jarring his ear. “I--I’ve just had a case of ataxia for a while. Kind of explains everything, doesn’t it?”

 

He frowned at her but nodded. “Yes, I suppose it does. Did he take care of it?”

 

“He sure did,” she forced out, smiling--grimacing--at him. “So I’m all clear to head out tomorrow. Which I need to. To get to the Imperial City. Go I mean.” She shook her head, scowling. “Sorry, I’m still a little tired.” He started when she sprung off of the bed, grabbed her pack, and headed towards him, towards the door. 

 

Martin stepped to the side, feeling her brush past him, and he sighed. He glanced back at the bed and scratched the back of his neck. He walked towards the mattress and sat down, the warmth from her body still lingering on the sheets and he laid down, feeling the bed give way to his weight and turned his face to the side, breathing in, clover hanging over the sheets and floating around him. 

 

He let out another sigh and rolled onto his side, and looked towards his armoire and closed his lids, ignoring the tug he felt towards it as he sent a prayer to Akatosh, and Mara, for good measure.

 

He had a lot to plan in the next few weeks before they could finally open that portal to Camoran’s Paradise. He hoped Baurus would be able to gather the support they needed, and he hoped Felicienne wouldn’t strangle him when she heard of what he had planned. 

 

* * *

 

 

Over the course of the next three weeks, Felicienne threw herself into her contracts--both of which had been far more bizarre from what she was used to--and patrolling for Oblivion Gates, and she had a little collection of Sigil Stones that she had acquired to show for her efforts. She hadn’t gone back to Cloud Ruler since her last visit, and Martin hadn’t sent for her. Neither had Jauffre. Which was how she found herself back in the Imperial City to pick up another dead drop and she huffed as she reached into a hollowed out tree trunk in the market place. She bent down to retrieve the parcel left for her, and fought her stomach back down into her abdomen and pressed her bare hand against her clammy forehead. She swallowed a couple times before she righted herself and took a few deep breaths before opening the note that had been nestled inside. She thought Lucien might have been fond of tormenting her, each contract seemed to be on targets who knew something was coming. 

 

She supposed that was what happened when you became a part of the Black Hand. 

 

Fucking Lucien. 

 

She hadn’t heard from him either, not since the night they spent together some weeks ago after the Draconis contract, and she had no way of getting a hold of him. Even the one time she tried to visit him at Farragut and yielded no results. And she could not find anything that might point her to where he went. A frown marred her features and she wrapped her arms around herself and felt her face grow hot and she bit her lip. 

 

Felicienne let out a groan, gripping her hair, as a wave of exhaustion washed over her and her stomach gave another twist. She would have to stop at an inn for the night to sleep before she tried to head on to Bruma; camping on the side of the road was not an option. 

  
  
  


She walked into the Merchant’s Inn and zeroed in on the publican and made arrangements with her to rent a room for the night. Instead of going up right away, however, she sat down in the corner of the room, and turned her gaze out of the window, watching the dual moons rise over the city walls. 

 

“I didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

 

The Breton whipped her head around, recognizing the accent. “Mathieu,” she exclaimed, a smile brightening her face. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Just here on business,” he stated, giving her a half-grin. He sat himself down near her. “I thought I recognized you from where I was, so I thought I’d see for myself if it was you. So what are you doing here?”

 

“Business as well.”

 

He inclined his head towards her, and took a swig of the ale he held in his hand. “You look like you’re doing better,” he murmured, “since the last time we spoke.”

 

She hummed. “I suppose so. I’ve just been busy,” she stopped to worry the inside of her cheek, “haven’t had much time to--to think, really. And I’m heading out towards Bruma tomorrow. Another job,” she chuckled, shrugging her shoulders. She saw a smile flit over his features, and heard a puff of air escape him. “What’s so funny?” she asked. He shook his head, sighing, grin still in place.

 

“Nothing, nothing. I just had a silly thought.”

 

“But I like silly,” she told him. 

 

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

 

“You’re no fun, keeping secrets. Secrets don’t make friends, Mathieu,” she said, settling a mock-scowl on her face, pouting. 

 

He just chuckled at her and drained the last of his ale. “I’m going to grab another. Do you want anything?”

 

“Maybe just some water.”

 

He raised his eyebrows. “Sure, I’ll be right back.”

 

She watched him go, settling back in her seat even though it dug into all of the tender spots that seemed adamant to make themselves known. She shifted her hips, wincing as a jolt of pain darted up from the joints there, and her lower back screamed at her. It was impossible to get comfortable anymore. Not that she had been living in the lap of luxury before. But as the weeks went on, it had become worse. 

 

She saw Mathieu talk to the barmaid, who threw her head back and laughed at whatever it was he said. Felicienne let herself smile. She’d missed drinks with him and Antoinetta, and she felt herself grow maudlin, watching the play of light on his features. Her mother would have absolutely adored him, if it weren’t for the whole “paid assassin” thing. 

 

She felt herself exhale and rubbed her stomach. 

 

Mathieu made his way back, handing her cup of water, and asked her, “What are you smiling at?”

 

She laughed. “Nothing, really. Just glad to see you again.”

 

“Oh?” he queried. “How come?”

 

“I just haven’t really see anybody lately. It’s all been work. I haven’t even heard anything from Lucien except for--you know--business.”

 

“Ah yes. I’ve actually been looking for him as well.”

 

“How come?”

 

“Black Hand matters. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

 

“Oh,” she winced and fell silent, staring into her water and breathing through the vines that twisted around her chest and throat. 

 

He frowned when her head dipped down. “I didn’t mean--I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s really nothing. Incredibly dull.”

 

“You’re right,” she scoffed and shook her head, “I’m just being--alone time’s been getting to me,” she joked. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been under a lot of stress.”

 

“I can imagine. Being Lucien’s--” he paused and pursed his mouth “--isn’t an easy thing.”

 

“Tell me about it,” she muttered. “I’ve been running all over, the jobs are getting harder and harder, and I can’t even get a hold of him.”

 

“Is that so? About the work, I mean.”

 

“Yes! I’d almost say he’s mad at me for something,” she laughed. 

 

Another smirk crossed his face and he chuckled with her. “You seem to be proving yourself quite capable, though. Your progress has made,” he trailed off, lips twitching, “quite the…commotion in the Black Hand.” He grinned. “Lucien’s very proud of you. At least, that’s what I learned last time he and I spoke.”

 

She nodded, her lips turning down and she chewed on the inside of her lip and cheek. “Mathieu?” she asked. “If you see Lucien, would you tell him that I’d like to see him?”

 

The other Breton scowled. “Why?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, of course, I will. I just--is everything alright?”

 

She flushed under his gaze. “Yes, yes everything is fine, I just...need to see him about something.”

 

He stared at her for several long moments and she saw his jaw clench and posture grow rigid as he sat up straight in his chair. “I see,” he said.

 

“No, it’s not like that. Please don’t get the wrong idea,” she pleaded, her voice thin and tinny, and she reached out to touch his arm. 

 

He allowed her to, but snapped, “How long have the two of you been fucking?”

 

She jerked back from him, eyes glassy and her chin quivering, and she brought her arms around her. She heard him laugh, the sound whipping across her face.

 

“How can you bring yourself to let him even touch you?” he hissed. “Have you forgotten what he’s made you do? For Sithis’ sake, Antoinetta’s dead because of him.”

 

“I know that Mathieu,” she bit out. “No one knows that better than I do.” She inhaled and held her breath, her hands shaking against her sides. 

 

He looked as though he wanted to say more, but shook his head. “I apologize,” he muttered. “I should not have said that.” He shook his head again and huffed. “You have been on my mind a lot lately, and I’ve been concerned for you. However, I am glad that you appear to be doing well.”

 

She nodded, still stung, but smiled at him anyway. 

 

“I will tell him you would like to see him. I imagine there must be a matter of some importance if you’re desperate to go through me,” he said as the corners of his mouth tugged up. 

 

She just shook her head at him, allowing a smile to play on her face. She’d let herself enjoy his company, since she’d have to leave again for her next contract, and who knew how much time would pass before she got to see anyone else again. She draped her arm across her abdomen and continued to chat with Mathieu long into the evening, after which he escorted her up to her room and bid her a good night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Hoar-Blood job was far more difficult than the Uvani contract. Especially since she had to scale the mountainside to even get to Havilstein. At this point, she was convinced that Lucien was trying to kill her. The barbarian had got a few good blows in on her with the blunt side of his ax, rather than the edge fortunately for her, a couple of which caused a great deal of panic within her, and she’d had no choice but to push him from the side of the hill. 

 

Not her most impressive work, but it had its intended effect. 

 

While she lay in bed in the Jerall View, she wondered if she should have just gone back to Cloud Ruler and the Blades. To Martin. But they hadn’t sent for her, and she had checked in town if anyone had been asking about her, and no one had been. There were whispers, however, throughout the town, a hush that seemed to cloak the city. The guards appeared apprehensive, and she noticed the way Burd and his elite kept patrolling the outer perimeter of the walls. 

 

At least four times since she’d arrived earlier in the evening. 

 

She was tempted to send word to Cloud Ruler, but kept herself from doing so. She told herself that if they needed her, they would tell her. Martin would tell her. It didn’t keep the lead ball from rolling around the pit of her stomach. 

 

The Breton tossed and turned, twisting her back and pulling at her linen shirt as it bunched around her waist and arms and tangled in the sheets while she closed her eyes and felt her body vibrate, feeling mushrooms sprout over her flesh and the room dissolved in a flurry of luminescent moth wings and torchbugs, and stars burst over her tongue. Nausea coiled inside her, dissolving the weight that had settled there and she pulled her knees up under her chin as she laid on her side, feeling the shivers of fingertips flashing over her clammy form, plucking the worm’s head caps that grew there.

 

She fell back into herself, panting, and her gaze flitted around the room. Then, she leaned over the side of the bed and expelled the meager dinner she’d choked down before heading to bed. She sat up, brushing her damp hair from her neck and forehead, and wiped the back of her mouth on her sleeve as she panted, her tongue hot and sickly sweet. 

 

She closed her eyes and let out a long exhale. She had to get to sleep soon; she had a long day ahead of her. Lucien was having her pick up her next dead drop at Nornal. 

 

She hoped the Imperial was pleased with himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Mathieu laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling awash in the golden glow of the numerous candles in his bedchamber. He let out a deep breath, the whisper drowning out the buzzing that filled the room for a moment and he inhaled, his gut twisting and he swallowed back the bile that built in his throat as fetid air clogged his lungs. 

 

Soon. It would be soon. 

 

He almost couldn’t believe how everything worked itself out in such a short amount of time. The Black Hand scrambled like rats when a cellar door opened, and Lachance was on the run, but he couldn’t be away forever. Not when his Silencer was carrying out his own orders. 

 

Mathieu let a laugh escape, before pressing his quaking palms against his mouth. She had no idea what she was doing; Lucien had done too good of a job keeping her ignorant. 

 

Poor thing. 

 

The Breton sighed, turning his head toward his nightstand to peer at dark hair and ashen skin. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and he shut them, seeing another’s pale flesh and bright blue eyes behind his lids and the ghost of a small palm against his own. Lachance would kill her, if he discovered Mathieu’s plan too early, and he cursed the Imperial. 

 

Lucien murdered anything that was good and sweet, with little thought or care. He ruined everything.

 

Sacrifices must be made, but by Mara, he wished he had known her first; she was the only one who would have understood, who he could have told! He’d thought he found that in Maria, in beautiful, fair Maria, but had been proven wrong and had her ripped away from him. But now! He should have known better, should have known when he first gazed upon her face to see those same azure orbs hidden behind familiar dark locks as she smiled up at him from beside Antoinetta. 

 

He had never seen a ghost so vivid before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update. Been doing a lot of editing lately while working on the sequel and a couple other side projects for this series. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter; it was rather difficult to write. Thank you all again for your support; your comments, kudos, and bookmarks mean everything to me. 
> 
> If anyone wants to keep up with my writing and/or just curious about what I get up to, come check out my blog and silencebrulant.tumblr.com


	21. The Voice of Death

The second Felicienne stepped inside the walls of Bravil, she wrinkled her nose and exhaled. She envied Shadowmere’s place in the stables outside. The air of Bravil hung thick on the ground, heavier now that the weather was warming with the approach of Rain’s Hand and the light of Magnus shining down on everything it touched, and new life was sprouting all over the place. Everywhere except for Bravil, unless you counted the mosquitoes. 

 

Which she didn’t. 

 

At least it was late afternoon and she would not need to deal with the heat of the day much longer. She just needed to keep her head down until then, lest her contract--Ungolim--noticed her and went on the defensive. Lucien’s note had indicated that this would be another target that suspected someone was out to get them. His letters had become somewhat more concerning than the dangers they warned against, or advocated for. They appeared rushed, and Felicienne could not help but mull over Mathieu’s strange behavior when she last saw him and asked about Lucien. He dodged her questions, but she assumed it was just something about the Black Hand that she didn’t have the seniority to know about. Not like Lucien would have told her anyway; the man loved to keep her in the dark. 

 

She approached the Chapel of Mara while she was there, at least to wait out the day. It would be somewhat quiet in there. 

 

The Breton pushed the heavy doors open and made her way to a bench in the back of the chapel. She sank into the pew and sighed with the pressure leaving her feet, and leaned back in her seat, tilting her head to look at the high, domed ceiling. The stone walls of the building kept it cool, even in noisome Bravil, and she watched the play of light that filtered through the stained glass and the shapes it created inside the chapel, fluttering like beating wings. Incense smoke wafted from the altar, curling along the pillars nearby, crawling towards the ceiling. Her eyes slid shut and she breathed in the perfumed air, mint tingling the tip of her nose and filling her lungs. Her throat bobbed up and down as she worked those muscles to swallow down the pressure that had built there, her skin becoming clammy and she cupped her hand to her mouth. She kept breathing, in and hold and out and hold and in and hold and out and hold, in and out. 

 

Like dragging sandpaper over them, her lids opened and she watched the parishioners hunched over in prayer, their heads bowed and mouths wrapping around the words they whispered to Mara, wife of Akatosh. She shifted on the seat, the wood creaking beneath her as she endeavored to relieve the ache in her hips, and tugged at the hem of her shirt, feeling the material cling to her. 

 

She sniffled and wrapped her arms around herself.

 

* * *

 

 

Felicienne crept beneath the outdoor stairs of a shack across from the Lucky Old Lady statue, poised with her bow, and waited for the glow of Ungolim’s torch to illuminate the statue’s face. She drew her fingers back, pulling the arrow with it, and she was seized with a muscle spasm in her back, the pain radiating into her extremities and her arrow flew past the wood elf and clipped the statue. The Breton cursed under her breath when he whipped around and trained his bow in her direction, dropping his torch on the ground, and it kept burning, low, casting shadows that skittered across the ground and base of the statue. 

 

She attempted to remain still, but she felt the breeze of the arrow flying past her and knew that something must have given her away. She fired again from her hiding spot, but he would find her soon; the location she chose was only ideal in the event of her not missing her first shot. She ran out to find higher ground, and his next arrow skimmed her shoulder, causing her to whip around and shoot from close range. He dodged the arrow and leapt at her, bringing his bow to connect with her temple. They struggled for a few moments, and he knocked her to the ground and attempted to pin her until she kicked him away and then rolled to reach his abandoned torch. She swung it to clip his head and he made to grab her improvised weapon, giving her an opening to fire a bolt of electricity to his chest, stopping him, and he crumpled in on himself and lay unmoving. 

 

The Breton bent over, holding her stomach as it attempted to turn itself inside out when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She began to right herself, a frisson of frost sliding down her back to mingle with her rebelling stomach when she felt strong fingers wind themselves in her hair and yank her head up, causing her to cry out. 

 

“I thought I could get here in time,” his voice growled. “I thought I could stop you.” Lucien faded into focus as he wrenched her around, hand still gripping her hair. “What have you done, you treacherous whore? What madness has claimed you? After everything I have done for you, you have betrayed the Dark Brotherhood. You have betrayed  _ me _ .” She saw him grimace, eyes on fire, so enraged he spit as he hissed at her through bloodless lips. His free hand came up to squeeze her throat, the other leaving her locks to do the same, and she began to claw at his arms, to pry them off of her as he nearly lifted her off of her feet. “Why?” he shouted into her face. “Tell me why and I may choose to end your miserable existence quickly.” 

 

His grip did slacken as she felt her sight dimming, felt the blood pound in her ears as it grew sluggish, lungs burning and her throat starting to crack. She smothered a laugh at the thought this was the second time in about a month someone had tried to strangle her, and realized her mistake when Lucien tightened his fingers again, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. Her struggles became weaker and tears spilled down her cheeks, and he flung her to the ground where she coughed and spluttered, the world coming back into focus.

 

“Damn you and this power you have over me,” he snarled, backhanding her across the face as she tried to back away from him, slipping and sliding against the dirt, unable to contain her sobs, all of the terror she had developed for him over the last half-year crashing back into her at once and rendering her almost hysterical. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her back to him and he gripped her chin, and it felt like he would dislocate her jaw.

 

“What are you talking about,” she rasped, bringing her palms up to his chest in an attempt to push him away, with no success.

 

“Do not play stupid with me. You performed so beautifully at first: Celedaen, eliminated, the entire Draconis family...I was so proud of you. You were everything I could have dreamt of, and then betrayal. Your dead drops went unvisited, your targets ignored, and you have been murdering all of the members of the Black Hand!” He took a hold of her wrists with his other hand, pinning them to her abdomen as he leant into her. “J’Ghasta, Shaleez, Alval Uvani, Havilstein Hoar-Blood--Speakers and Silencers. And Ungolim...you killed the Listener himself!” He let go of her chin to strike her again and she cried out, watching the feverish gleam in his eyes. She continued to sob as he stared at her, his gaze not settling on one part of her face longer than a second, then meeting her teary gaze and his hold on her loosened. He panted, exhaling through his nose, the red flush that had taken over his face, cooling. “You’re confused,” he sighed, letting her wrists free and moving his hand from her chin to her cheek, just holding it, not stroking or striking her. Just resting it there, and she felt the tremors that ran through his palm. 

 

She swallowed a few times, trying to stabilize her own breath. 

 

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he murmured. His eyes were wide and they looked away from her as she shook her head. He let out another exhalation, suddenly looking very old, lines creasing his mouth and forehead, complexion grey, and he backed away from her, running his hands through his hair, ripping out his customary ponytail, the strands falling around his face. “Then you are innocent, and the surviving Black Hand members know this. They know you are innocent, that you were following orders. My orders. They believe I am the traitor,” he told her. 

 

“But...what happened? Why--”

 

“It appears that someone has been intercepting my letters to you.”

 

She brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh gods,” she whimpered. “I thought something was wrong. And I couldn’t get a hold of you. Lucien, I didn’t know,” she pleaded, reaching out to grab his robe, clutching his sleeves in her trembling hands and she knelt before him. “I swear I didn’t know. I tried to find you--”

 

“Hush,” he said to her and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering. He looked around when he pulled away. “Let us continue this conversation inside. I have a room in the Lonely Suitor.”

  
  
  


They entered his room, with Lucien holding the girl’s arm, and he shut the door behind them, barring it. “We have been deceived. We need to find out who is behind this.” He let out a shaking breath. “I am hunted day and night by the Black Hand. They want me dead.” Lucien reached out to her, holding her face in both hands, ignoring her flinch as he did so. “You must go to your next dead drop location, and confront whoever drops off the false contract. Until then, I’ll be in hiding as Fort Farragut is no longer secure.” He then kissed her, almost chaste, and pressed his forehead against hers. “I’ll wait for you at Applewatch, the farm where you killed the Draconis woman. It should be safe.” He began to move away from her when her hands came up to hold his arms.

 

“Please don’t go, not yet. I can’t--I can’t have you leave me yet,” she pleaded. “There are s-so many things I need to tell you,” she hiccupped. 

 

“You can tell me later,” he promised, bringing his hand to her face, and she began to cry again. 

 

“At least just stay with me, for a few hours. Please,” she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. “I can’t bear to be alone,” she confessed. “I-I have no one here, no one who--who would accept me, not as I am, with the things I have done--” Felicienne’s eyes met his, deep and dark, and she saw the torchlight play off of those reflective pools. “There’s only you.” She took in a breath. “You’ve ruined me,” she accused, without heat. “I wish I’d never met you,” she mumbled into his chest.

 

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “I know,” he stated. 

 

“I killed Antoinetta for you. Beautiful Antoinetta who loved you,” she moaned. “And the traitor still survives and I was the last thing she saw,” Felicienne sobbed harder, tremors wracking her small frame. “I hate you, Lucien Lachance. I absolutely hate you. You’ve killed me.”

 

He brought her mouth to him and kissed her, and she melted under his assault, parting her lips and moaning when his tongue wrapped around hers.

 

She pulled away first, eyes half-lidded and her mouth swollen. She looked Lucien and pushed herself back into his arms, burying her face in his neck. She felt his back tense before he tightened his embrace on her, his hands running up and down her back and coming up to tangle in her locks. 

 

“Why me?” she asked into his dark robes. His stroking faltered, but she felt his lips on the top of her head and his breath ghosting over her hair. 

  
  
  


Later, they lay naked, their bodies entwined as he peppered soft wet kisses along the line of bruises that decorated her otherwise pale flesh. She gasped as he thrust into her, grinding down on him, her thighs clinging to his waist and locked at the ankles. She shuddered as she orgasmed, her muscles clenching down on his cock until she felt it pulse inside of her. 

 

They panted against each other until Lucien rolled over onto his back and pulled the girl into him his arms, kissing the top of her head.

 

“Lucien, I need to tell you something,” she whispered, running her fingers along his chest, feeling the way his heart began to settle and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. 

 

“Tell me later,” he told her, voice low and rough. “When this is all over, tell me then.”

 

“But--”

 

“Felicienne,” he cut in. “Later.”

 

They lapsed into quiet, the stillness of the room blanketing them, and she felt herself begin to float away, the woodsmoke and metallic scent of her Speaker surrounding her, when she heard Lucien mumble into her hair.

 

“I love you.”

 

She jerked her head up and stared at him, frowning with her large eyes. “What? What do you mean,” she questioned, blood rushing through her ears.

 

“I love you,” he repeated. “I must. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Hurting you or touching you. Even killing you. I can’t stand the thought of anyone else doing it. I can’t get you out of my head. Since that night I first saw you. I can’t get away from you.” He said all of this as a matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather or a local rumor. 

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I only want you to know.”

 

“I--I...Lucien, this isn’t fair,” she breathed, feeling her heart race and her skin become tepid. He pet her hair.

 

“It’s alright if you don’t feel the same. I know you don’t,” he said to her. “I don’t need your love. As long as you belong to me, as long as you are mine, I don’t need your love.”

 

She opened her mouth to refute him, to tell him she didn’t know how she felt, that she wasn’t his, but no words came, and she only nodded. 

 

“Sometimes I,” he began and trailed off, running his fingers over her cheek and brow bone, smoothing her hair behind her ear. He gazed at her and she felt herself flush under his scrutiny. 

 

“My good, sweet girl,” he purred, fondling her until she fell asleep.

  
  
  


She woke alone and sick, the room completely dark without even the light of the moons to illuminate it. She pushed her face against the pillows, inhaling, and wrapped the sheets around herself again to smother the pressure building in her chest.

 

* * *

 

Felicienne felt sick, walking into what she assumed was the traitor’s living quarters in the Anvil lighthouse, the odor of decomposition and stale blood assaulting her and bringing tears to her eyes. She had to swallow her dry-heaves as she made her way through the various bodies and, oh gods, body parts. She shuddered. 

 

She’d had to kill a dog, a dog she assumed was fed a steady diet of man and mer flesh, and already she saw the buzzing flies land on it, wasting no time to put the carcass to use. 

 

She came upon a door and pushed it open. And she promptly threw up all over her boots. On a plate, surrounded by candles, was the severed head of a woman. 

 

“Mother Mara,” she whispered, bringing her hand to cover her mouth. She looked around the rest of the room, her sight falling upon a book settled on a nightstand, and she picked it up. Flipping it open, the first thing she noticed was the oxidized blood in looping cursive, the same she had noticed in her dead drops. 

 

The contents of her stomach threatened to make another appearance.

 

Flipping it open, her heart stuttered. 

 

_ It's all right, mother. It's almost over. I'm close. So very close. How long have we struggled? How long have we waited? Too long, I know. But it's almost over. I promise. _

 

_ I saw Lucien Lachance yesterday. He was in the Sanctuary talking with Ocheeva. He was right there! So close I could have severed his spine in less than a heartbeat! Oh Mother, never before have I had to exercise such self-control. _

 

_ Maria was so beautiful. She was perfect in so many ways. Why couldn't she handle the truth...I really thought we could be together. Make a real family, with real love. But she told me she could never accept your place in my life. So now she's gone... I'm so sorry...the others will never find her, don't worry. There's nothing left of her to find. _

 

_ Advancement at last! Lucien Lachance paid a visit to the Sanctuary today, to talk with me! He told me the Black Hand needed my services. One of the other Speakers is looking to replace his assistant, who was killed fulfilling a contract. So Lucien Lachance suggested me! _

 

_ father prayed and guess who came the hooded man in Sithis' name who left but then he came once more to pass through window wall and door I lie in fear my mouth agape as wicked blade did cleave your nape for I was watching 'neath the bed to see the falling of your head and when your face lie on the floor our loving eyes did meet once more and so I pledged to you that day the Brotherhood would dearly pay and just as they took me from you I'd find and kill their mother too but there's someplace I need to start and that's with father's beating heart and when that's done I'll sing and dance _

_ to celebrate a dead LaChance _

 

_ I've been switching them! Switching the dead drops! It was so easy! I tracked Lachance from his lair at Fort Farragut to the first dead drop location. After Lachance placed the orders, when I was sure he was gone, I switched them! It was so easy. Now Lachance's Silencer is working for us, mother...One of the Black Hand told me they haven't seen such an ambitious family member since I first joined the Dark Brotherhood. I will use that very ambition to my own advantage. I think you would like her; she isn’t like the rest of them. I know I said that before, but it’s true...I write this en route to the first target -- one of the very members of the Black Hand! And so it begins. Lachance's silencer will kill one high ranking Brother member, then another...until the entire family implodes...the survivors will consult the Night Mother and seek her guidance. When that day comes, I will be there, ready to plunge a blade into that dark whore's fetid heart! _

 

She snapped the journal shut, and stuffed it into her pack. She had to get to Applewatch; she had no time to spare. He’d been watching Lucien, watching her, and no one had ever noticed him, suspected him. He could be anywhere. Her stomach sank as she thought he could be there with her right now and she might not know. 

 

With that thought in mind, she raced out of the lighthouse to find Shadowmere standing on the shoreline. She hopped up onto the steed, ignoring the way her body protested the sudden jarring motion, and pressed her ankles into the mare’s flanks, urging her to begin to run. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Dear Brother!” Arquen mocked, bringing the lash down on Lucien’s bare back while he was suspended by the arms from the rafters in Applewatch, “how long are you going to keep up this charade?” She laughed at the gasp he let out when the whip added another slash on his already bloodied flesh. “We’ve already discovered your plan, we just want to know why? Training a little girl to do your dirty work, your own Silencer? That was sloppy of you. I expected better, Lucien.”

 

Mathieu watched with Banus, smirking at the blood that dripped from his former mentor’s body and the anguish that danced across his face. His time would come soon enough; Arquen was just getting started. His ears drank in the sounds of Lucien attempting to explain himself, still indignant at the accusations being hurled against him. All of these years of planning just to see that one moment of betrayal when the Speaker saw Mathieu alongside the other three members of the new Black Hand. Finally, all of Mother’s suffering would be over. He saw Belisarius join in with Arquen and felt a shiver roll down his spine.

 

“Do you not want to join in, Brother?” Banus asked. “He was your friend for a long time.”

 

“I want to savor this. I lost someone very dear to me because of him,” he murmured, grinning when he saw Belisarius bring out the calipers and started to press them between his ribs.  Even Lucien couldn’t remain so stoic under those conditions. He hoped they would be finished before Felicienne got there. The poor girl could be so squeamish, even though he was doing them both a favor; they’d finally be free of Lucien, the Dark Brotherhood, the Night Mother, all of it. She would understand, she must. He remembered her rage at Lucien sending her on that pointless Purification, how she wept at Antoinetta’s death by her own hand. Felicienne had sobbed into his shirt; he’d had to lead them out of the tavern and into the room he was staying in to not draw a scene. He’d already known the story, of course. The Purification had been building for the last year and a half, but he still soothed her with words of sympathy, and shed a few genuine tears for Antionetta Marie, someone else Lucien had ruined. 

 

“I hate him, Mathieu,” Felicienne had choked out. “None of them would have betrayed him, especially Antoinetta. I hate him, I hate him.”

 

She had been nearing hysterics, so he kissed her. She had stiffened, but then she melted, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against him and he  _ wanted _ . He wanted to sink into her, merge with her so that they could fill in the cracks in each other’s souls. He wanted, but she backed away, face flushed and lips swollen and wet, her eyes still flooded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and left, no doubt to report back to her Speaker. He had let out a shuddering breath and laid down on top of his bed, trying to settle his racing heart, lips tingling with the memory of her soft breaths and ripe flesh. 

 

Now, Mathieu was watching the source of so much suffering get his comeuppance. Perhaps Felicienne would feel relief; the girl cared too much, clinging to Lucien in the aftermath of the Purification, something that man no doubt exploited, just like he had Antoinetta’s gratitude. Lucien’s shadow would no longer haunt either of them.

 

Arquen and Belisarius laughed again, and the Altmer turned towards the two other men. “Why don’t you two take over for a bit. We’re going to head into town to pick up some provisions. I have a feeling we’ll be here for some time yet.” 

 

They left and Mathieu walked towards Lucien, running his fingers over the various instruments on the side table next to him. Arquen and Belisarius had done quite the number on him, he could even see a bit of white peeking out from the flesh of the Imperial’s chest. 

 

“That must sting,” he murmured, tracing the fragment with his finger. He chuckled at the other man’s groan and pressed his finger against the wound.

 

“I am not the traitor; I have given my life to the Brotherhood. The traitor is still out there,” Lucien panted, stubborn as always.

 

Mathieu just tsked. “Don’t you think we’ve heard enough of that?”

 

“My Silencer will be here soon enough with the evidence to exonerate me.”

 

“I imagine she will be,” Mathieu mused. “You’ve sent her on quite the goose chase, haven’t you? You bark and she jumps, right? Wrapped around your finger, just like you wanted.” the Breton chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess you wanted her wrapped around something else, too. For what? This? For her to provide a cover to your treachery?” He picked up the abandoned calipers. “You betrayed your Family, the one you’re sworn to protect and guide according to our Dread Father and the Night Mother. We just want to know why; there’s no point in you pleading your case. You realize, of course, that you’re going to die. The real question is: how much time is going to pass between now and then?” 

 

Banus’ laughter echoed behind him, and Mathieu turned and gave the dark elf a grin. “You know, not all of us are convinced your little Silencer is completely innocent. You did go through quite a bit to ensure she would not be killed during the Purification. Took quite a bit of convincing to persuade the other Black Hand members, didn’t it? Although, that might have been for more personal...gratification. You two sometimes shared a bed, did you not? I, personally, find it hard to believe that you did not give her at least an inkling to what you were planning. Some light pillow-talk between lovers...” Mathieu looked up into Lucien’s furious eyes, watching the sweat gather on his brow and drip down his temples and cheeks. “Perhaps we’ll question her as well, just to be safe. Maybe see for ourselves what you taught her.” 

 

“I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing to her. She is awfully easy on the eyes,” Banus piped up. “Been awhile since I’ve been able to get away from administrative work long enough for...relaxation. I’m pretty sure Belisarius feels the same way. And Mathieu, wasn’t Maria one of his victims? Maybe we should give you first crack at his little pet. Fair’s fair,” he laughed. “Do you think the little Breton will cry?”

 

Lucien jerked in his restraints and forced out between clenched teeth, “You know she wasn’t involved, you bastard. Keep your hands off of her.  _ Don’t touch her _ .”

 

Mathieu’s grin widened. “Oh dear,” he chuckled, “you actually care what happens to her? I never pegged you for the type to worry about his whore.” Mathieu clenched the calipers around the exposed bit of rib and pulled. Whether the Imperial’s howl was of pain or outrage, Mathieu wasn’t sure. Nor did he care. “What is it about you that inspired such loyalty in them? In her? In the Cheydinhal Sanctuary? Was it fun for you, to treat them as your little puppets, carrying out your wishes?”

 

“They carried out the will of the Night Mother and Sithis,” the hanged man groaned. 

 

“You can play that loyal subject of Sithis role all you want, but you know the game’s up.” Mathieu sighed. “You know, calipers get old after a while, and I can’t do anything terribly fun until Arquen gets back. But what we do have,” the Breton stepped back, leaving the calipers clamped onto Lucien’s side while he walked over to the hearth, where a rod had been placed halfway into the fire. He pulled it out and held the glowing end towards Lucien’s face. “What do you say, that looks done, doesn’t it?” And he pressed it against the Imperial’s cheek. 

 

* * *

 

 

Felicienne burst through the door, the traitor’s journal packed away in her rucksack and stopped short. Four black-robed individuals stood in the cheery cabin. The firelight flickered across their shrouded visages and she tried to peer behind the tallest one, an Altmer female. 

 

“Silencer!” the elven woman greeted. “At last you’ve arrived. Fear not, the crisis that has threatened the Dark Brotherhood is at an end.” She smiled, but Felicienne felt lead settle in her stomach. The other woman stepped to the side, still grinning. “As you can see,” she gestured to the hanging corpse now in full view, “we have dealt with Lucien Lachance. No longer will you serve as his puppet.” 

 

“Oh gods,” the Breton murmured, feeling her eyes burn and throat tighten when she saw the condition of the body she now knew was Lucien’s. The corners of the room began to recede and all she saw was him. Her face went hot--glowing--before the heat slid down her face and she staggered. She tried stepping forward, towards Lucien, but strong hands held her back and she slumped into the body that appeared behind her. 

 

“Don’t waste your tears on him,” were the words breathed into her hair. “He was a disgusting excuse of a man who ruined everything he touched. He got what was coming to him.”

 

“No, Mathieu,” she moaned, turning around in his arms. “He wasn’t the traitor,” she sobbed. “He wasn’t.”

 

“Sister,” the other woman cut in, “I understand your grief; we all had a difficult time understanding why Lucien would betray us. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, having the Speaker you did.”

 

“Arquen,” Mathieu said, “perhaps you could give us a few moments. We’ll just step outside. This is, naturally, quite a shock to her.”

 

Arquen rolled her eyes. “I suppose, but try to make it quick; we have business we need to get to.” 

 

The Breton nodded, leading Felicienne outside of the cabin whose sobs shook her slight frame and echoed in his ears as he felt the vibrations of her body against him. He turned her to face him, touching her face with his hands and wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, moonlight glinting off of her pale skin and blue eyes, her hair a dark halo around her face. Frost escaped her panting mouth, and he traced her lips with his fingers. She jerked away.

 

Removing his hands to clench at his side, he sighed. “You need to calm down. You’re hysterical.”

 

“Of course I’m hysterical,” she whispered, her voice rough and insistent. “You don’t understand, Mathieu, I saw his house.”

 

“Lucien’s?”

 

“No, the traitor’s,” her voice cracked and she pushed herself into his arms again, crying into his shoulder. Mathieu’s back stiffened, but he brought his arms around her. 

 

“Oh?”

 

“There were bodies, and, and parts, and I think some were...were eaten. And there was a head.” She backed up, sniffling and rifling through her satchel. “And I found his diary. He’s been planning this for years and it’s not Lucien.” Weeping overtook her once more, and Mathieu drew small circles on her back, shushing her. 

 

The whispers of the snowflakes as they collided with the ground and the wind winding through the barren branches of the trees became the only sound around them for some time, the moons drifting along the starry river. 

 

“You don’t understand,” she mumbled as he caressed her. 

 

“What don’t I understand?” he whispered, inhaling the scent of her hair.

 

“I have to tell him--he has to know…” and she began to sob again.

 

“Tell him what, dear heart?”

 

“I had to see a healer!” she burst out, her voice echoing off of the snow and ice. “I was sick. I fainted, and my friend made me see a healer,” she cried. “Mathieu,” she hiccupped, “I’m a couple months along...I wanted to tell him.”

 

He stared at a spot above her head as he continued to soothe her, his jaw set. “You’re with child,” he stated. 

 

She sobbed harder.

 

“Let’s leave,” he murmured to her.

 

“What?”

 

“Let’s leave,” he said. “We’ll go to another province, buy a farm, start our lives over. What chance did we ever have? I’ll take care of you, of your child. I don’t care that it’s Lucien’s,” he assured her. “We could be like normal people; we could build a normal family, a real family, with real love.” She pulled out of his embrace.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“We could make a real family,” he insisted. Her eyes drifted over his shoulder and she worried her lip.

 

“With real love,” she whispered.

 

“Yes,” he told her, gripping her arms, careful not to bruise her. “We could go to Skyrim, you’ve always wanted to go, maybe a nice town like Whiterun. Or we could go back to High Rock, maybe Wayrest, where your father’s family is from. We could do anything.”

 

“I have to see this through,” she breathed, looking back to him, tears running down her cheeks. “Let’s just...see what happens, I have to see this through. For Lucien, for Antoinetta, at least,” she rushed when she saw his expression darken. She bit her lip before she spoke again. “Mathieu, tell me, please, what was the name of the other family member, the woman, you loved?”

 

“Maria,” he said, brows furrowed. “Why?”

 

“I just, it’s sad to think of how many of us we’ve lost.”

 

“You never belonged here.” He embraced her.

 

“I don’t belong anywhere,” she mouthed. 

 

* * *

 

  
  


Felicienne landed with an “oomph” as the group of Speakers teleported to the statue of the Lucky Old Lady, the very place she killed Ungolim and sealed Lucien’s fate. She stumbled into Mathieu, who caught her, and she ignored the smirks the remaining family members gave the pair of them. She bit her lip and fought down her nausea, aggravated by the pulling sensation of the teleportation spell. 

 

Arquen then stood in front of the statue, gesturing towards it, a wide grin on her face and Felicienne hated her more in that moment than she had ever hated Lucien. “Behold,” Arquen intoned, “the Night Mother! The locals call this statue the Lucky Old Lady, but they have no idea how lucky they really are. This stone effigy masks the entrance into the Dark Brotherhood’s most revered and unholy site--the crypt of the Night Mother herself.” She then instructed the other members of the Black Hand to form a semicircle around the front of the tomb as she turned to face it. 

 

Mathieu finally relinquished his hold on her, but took her hand in his and squeezed it, briefly, and leaned into her. “It’s almost over,” he whispered into her ear. “After this, we can go anywhere. I swear I will take care of you. You’ll make a wonderful mother.”

 

Felicienne nodded and turned her gaze to the statue. 

 

Arquen gave them a sharp look, and Mathieu pulled away. She then turned back towards the statue and raised her arms. “Unholy Matron, we of the Black Hand beseech you! Reveal yourself now, most magnificent Night Mother, so that we may seek your guidance!”

 

The statue clicked and began to move, shifting to the side and revealing a winding staircase that led down into an almost impenetrable darkness, until a flash occurred and a dim glow emanated from it. “Come,” she said, “let us go meet with our Mother.”

 

Banus and Belisarius where the first to follow Arquen, but Mathieu held Felicienne back by her hand. 

 

“Mathieu, we need to go,” she said, attempting to tug him along, but he held fast.

 

“We will, but I need to say something first.”

 

Ice gripped her stomach and she brought her arm around her abdomen. He caught the movement and frowned. 

 

“You do not need to be afraid,” he said, and he ran his hand along his face, to the back of his neck and sighed. “I just--I know--I want to take care of you, but I want you to know I don’t--I don’t expect anything from you. I know you’ll need time. No matter how odious Lachance was, I know his death has hurt you. I would never take advantage of you,” he beseeched her. “I only want a family. I promise you. I will be the best father to your child.” He dropped to his knees and pressed his hands to her stomach, and she felt them shake through her robes. “I have always wanted a family,” he murmured. “My father ruined ours, and I would never make the mistakes he made. I just want to prove it.” He then wrapped his arms around her, his cheek against her womb. “Please let me. We could be so happy. Let me make us happy.”

 

“Mathieu, please, we need to go. We can speak of this later,” she murmured, running her hand through his hair. She felt him nod against her before he stood up. 

 

“Let’s go,” he said, leading her down into the ancient crypt.

  
  


“Finally,” Banus said when the two Bretons entered. 

 

Felicienne ducked her head and Mathieu glared at the Imperial. 

 

“What is the meaning of this?” an ethereal voice echoed in the chamber. “Who has disturbed my slumber?

 

“Forgive us, Night Mother. We beg your mercy in our time of need,” Arquen said. “We need your guidance.”

 

A ghostly figure came into view, and Felicienne had to keep from gasping. So this was who the Dark Brotherhood got their orders from, she realized. She wondered how the traitor figured he could kill something that was already dead.

 

“Ah, I have been expecting you,” the phantom responded. “The Listener now kneels by Sithis, as does his successor. There is a traitor amongst you.”

 

Arquen nodded, but then spoke, “The traitor is dead, dearest Mother. We have come to ask your blessing. Anoint one of us your Listener, so we can restore the Black Hand.”

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Felicienne saw Mathieu’s jaw tick as he glared in front of him. The air grew cold around them, and she shuddered when she heard the Night Mother speak again. 

 

“Foolish little girl,” she spat. “Lucien Lachance served Sithis ‘til his dying breath. The Black Hand remains tainted by betrayal. Restoration is impossible.”

 

“Enough! Enough of this,” Mathieu snarled as he brandished a dagger, vibrating with suppressed rage as his eyes gleamed with excitement and bloodlust. “You will all suffer for the pain you’ve put me through. I will destroy your Night Mother and your little Family.” 

 

Faster than Felicienne thought possible, Mathieu then slit both Banus and Belisarius’ throats, before turning to Arquen after she shouted out. He slashed her, though she backed away in time and only suffered a flesh wound. However, the dagger rendered her immobile. 

 

“Mathieu, you damned traitor,” the high elf screamed. “Why, brother? After all of these years?”

 

“You killed my mother! Lucien may have been the one to carry it out, but you’re all responsible. You’ve ruined my life,” he shrieked, and Felicienne felt the now familiar sting of tears in her eyes. “I’m going to destroy you all.”

 

“Mathieu, please,” Felicienne tried to approach him, but he held his blade up. 

 

“Do not get in my way; I do not want to harm you, but I cannot let you stop me,” he told her, his voice quiet and calm, though that did nothing to set her at ease. “We kill and we kill and we kill. All we know is death. Aren’t you sick of it? It ends here.”

 

The other Breton tried to speak, but she felt motion from behind her. She turned and saw that Arquen had recovered, and lunged at Mathieu, who swung again at the Altmer, this time missing her. 

 

“What are you waiting for?” Arquen shouted at Felicienne. “Do not let him harm the Night Mother. He’s the reason your Speaker is dead!”

 

While the tall woman was distracted, Mathieu went to plunge his blade into her golden neck, but Felicienne ran to grab his arm. He then brought his fist into contact with her face, and Felicienne’s head snapped to the side. He paused for a moment, brows furrowed, and she drew her dagger and sank it into his chest, piercing his heart. He slumped forward, his weight causing her to crumple with him. 

 

“Why?” he whispered to her, tears dripping down over his cheekbones, and he brought a hand up to where he struck her, leaving a bloody smudge in its path.

 

“I don’t know,” she breathed. “I don’t know.”

 

His eyes became unfocused, though he still stared at her, and she felt his gaze go right through her. “You belong to them forever now,” he told her, his voice weakening as his breathing became more and more shallow. She nodded and moved him onto his back. He began to whisper and she leaned in. “When in the snow I like to lie and fold my arms and wait to die…” Then he looked at her. “I’m so afraid,” he exhaled. He did not draw breath again. 

 

She clutched his robes tightly for a moment before letting dropping her hands to her sides. 

 

She felt a hand rest on her shoulder and turned to see Arquen kneeling beside her. 

 

“It’s over,” the older woman said, helping her get up. 

 

As they righted themselves, the spectre approached them and stood before the Breton.

 

“At last we meet,” she greeted the young woman. “I have been following your strange journey through the Dark Brotherhood, from Oblivion to now, from your very first murder.” A wistful smile appeared on her ethereal visage before she continued. “I have known of Mathieu Bellamont’s intentions since he was only a boy with a thirst for vengeance. I could have informed my Listener, but I refused to reward such weakness.  I allowed this to occur,” she revealed. “Just as I allowed you to intercept it.”

 

The girl shook her head and gazed off to the side of the crypt, her eyes glistening. 

 

“Why?”

 

“The Dread Father saw your defeat of the traitor, in this crypt.” A chill ran through the Breton as the Night Mother placed her hand on her cheek. “You have been chosen. You will be my Listener.”

 

With that, the Night Mother vanished, leaving Felicienne to stare into nothingness, her head filled with fog and blood, and she felt herself drowning in it. She barely registered Arquen congratulating her. When she looked at the woman, all she saw was Lucien’s flayed and mutilated body hanging from the rafters of Applewatch. 

 

She flinched away from her, panting, and looked around from side to side, feeling herself swooning. Arquen steadied her. 

 

“Come,” she said. “The Night Mother will send us where we need to be.”

 

Before Felicienne could question her, she felt the familiar tug of teleportation before she landed with an “oomph” onto a well-known stone floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was painful to write. I've gone over it several times trying to get it right and I'm still not completely satisfied with it. But here it is. I hope you all enjoy it. We're in the final stretch, and there's still more rough times ahead. Thank you all for your lovely comments and for leaving kudos! It honestly just makes me so happy people are enjoying my little writing project. I smile every time I see them. You've all been so wonderful. I think I just still can't believe anyone likes my stuff.


	22. Not Here, but in the Houses of the Dead

If one could ignore the eerie silence that wound through the corridors and clung to the corners of stone chambers, the Cheydinhal Sanctuary was little changed. Felicienne looked around and saw no trace of the blood she’d spilled there, only the whispers of the tapestries and creaking of bones and Schemer’s footsteps acting as reminders of the life that dwelled there before.

Lucien had been nothing if not thorough.

She felt her throat close up around a lump lodged there and she squeezed her eyes shut while she fondled the talisman around her neck. Her fingers curled around the piece, prongs digging into the pads of her digits, and the thrum of the enchantment hummed along her skin. She brought her other arm around herself.

“Listener?” Arquen’s voice intruded on the Breton’s quiet. “Is there anything you need?”

Felicienne swallowed and shook her head, keeping her eyes closed.

“We need to discuss business. I’ve taken the liberty of having other Brotherhood members work on recruiting more people, but the process will be slow until we can revive the Black Hand. I was thinking of contacting other Black Hand members from the other provinces if that is alright with you?”

The Breton nodded, gripping her necklace in her fist. “Look, Arquen,” she began. “I understand why things happened the way that they did, but I don’t think I can bear to see or hear you right now. I--I get it. I do. I can’t be here right now. I have some things that need my attention.” Her breath hitched and caught in her throat, stinging her. “I can’t be here,” she shook her head, “but you can reach me in Bruma. Just… send a note if it’s urgent.”

She heard a huff. “You can’t just abandon your duties as Listener.” Arquen's sharp voice pierced her ears.

“I’m not. I just...can’t be here. I’ll be back,” she mumbled. “I know you’ll make the right decisions on how to keep things running while I’m away. This--it means a lot to you, so just...use your best judgment.” The girl finally turned her face towards the elf and opened her eyes, working her mouth she but emitted no sound. She saw Arquen frown before she nodded her head in assent and Felicienne jerked away.

“Listener,” Arquen interjected as Felicienne started toward the living quarters to retrieve her items. “I,” she sighed, “I did what I thought was best. I won’t apologize for that.”

“I know.” She shivered and held herself tighter. “I know why you all--why you killed him.” She laughed, a strangled sound, and said, “It’s my fault anyway, right? I should have--" she cut herself off and dragged a fist across her face. "It doesn’t matter,” she muttered. She took in another deep breath and closed her eyes, brows furrowed and she opened her mouth. “Arquen,” she said, her lips trembling with effort.

The high elf’s forehead creased and her lips turned down at the corners again. “Yes, Listener?”

“If,” she sniffled and cleared her throat, “if you come across any of Lucien’s belongings--” she bit her lip, sucking on it and shook her head. “Could you just gather them for me? Don’t--don’t go through them, or anything, just...get them together for me? Please? Leave them on my bed?”

Arquen’s expression softened. “Of course, Listener.” The elf glanced down, eyelashes brushing high cheekbones, her golden skin gleaming in the torchlight and Felicienne inclined her head to her and moved towards the hallway.

“Listener?”

“What is it?” came Felicienne’s sharp response. Then she took a deep breath.

“I am so sorry,” the other woman said while Felicienne watched her clench her fists at her side. “Lucien--He was a good friend of mine and I--we all--felt, well, betrayed when we thought it was him. He was our Brother. We trusted him." Arquen cleared her throat before continuing, her voice suspiciously thick to Felicienne's ears. "He and I were recruited around the same time.” She bit off a laugh. “I taught him how to make poisons. Good ones. Not that garbage you get from your local alchemist. He showed me how to stab a man through his vocal chords so he couldn’t scream for help.”

Felicienne stared at the elven woman and nodded. “That sounds like him,” she mumbled.

“My point is that I do regret what happened. You have no idea how much I regret it. Sithis will judge me.”

“I have a feeling a lot of that will be going around,” Felicienne said. “Thank you, I suppose." She sucked on her lower lip, her gaze darting between Arquen and the hallway and the entrance. "I have to get going soon. But I will be back.”

 

* * *

 

The Breton’s hands hovered in front of the door at Applewatch and she pressed her forehead to the wood, the frost that had accumulated on it digging into her skin. She felt the cold air fill her lungs and she pushed the door open, the little cottage shrouded in darkness, the hearth and lanterns having long been extinguished.

Lucien’s body, what was left of it, still hung in the center of the Draconis’ home and she gasped upon seeing it again, clutching her necklace against her pounding heart. Her hands vibrated with tension, and she felt bile begin to make its familiar ascent up her esophagus. She shut her eyes and forced it down, the sour sting of it biting her tongue as it receded, still simmering. Her other hand rested on her stomach and she walked into the living area. She stared, eyes taking in every detail, every mark, that the Black Hand left on him.

She’d seen corpses in better condition.

Did Mathieu contribute to Lucien’s state? She figured he must have; given how much he--now clearly--hated the man.

There was little, if anything, left of the man who had been her Speaker. And lover. They’d even sheared off his dark hair, the hair she’d sometimes enjoy sliding her fingers through, that would mingle with her own when they lay together, that smelled so much like smoke and fire. The only part of him that didn’t smell of blood. She touched him, the sickly yellowed flesh that gave a little too much, felt a little too dry. She felt a certain satisfaction that Mathieu had killed Banus Alor and Belisarius before she--

She avoided Lucien's open wounds.

It didn't seem real. Lucien would come out and reprimand her for being such a petulant and ungrateful child, and then she would be back in the dark with him, the creeping vines growing and grasping around her as everything fell away, a chasm opening inside of her that everything spilled into and watered the mushroom saplings and stalks of flame that burned inside of her while ashes filled her ears and dulled the noise surrounding her--

A sob bubbled in her chest, percolating, and clawed at her throat. She sank to the floor and folded her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs and Felicienne dragged her gaze to his face and cried at the gory creation they’d left behind: his sharp eyes plucked from his skull and jaw completely removed, a gaping hole where his smirking mouth used to be. The open maw a perpetual scream of anguish, silenced.

What had they done with the parts they removed?

She’d been too late.

“I’m pregnant, you son of a bitch,” she shouted to him. “I’m pregnant and you let yourself get killed.” Her breath hitched and a fresh wave of tears stained her cheeks. “You selfish bastard.” She stood up and ripped her necklace off and threw it across the room and it hit the wall near the fireplace with a smack before it slid down and landed on the floor. “Fuck you, Lucien. Fuck you.” She ran her hands over her face and through her hair, fingers catching on her knots and windbraids while she paced back and forth in the room. “Why me?” she questioned as she fisted her hair. Everything felt hot, the air in her lungs thick and damp. “Why is it me? What did I do?” she cried. “Do you think I wanted this?” she asked him. She grabbed a tray that had been placed on the table and flung it to the ground. “I hate this. I hate everyone. No one ever asked me if I wanted to do any of this. I’m just supposed to because a dead man told me too,” she raged, kicking the table over, the rest of its contents spilling, something shattering. She came to a stop and buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t want any of this,” she repeated. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me." She looked back over to Lucien, her lips trembling. "There’s something in me. Something that makes me hate everything.”

She turned her face downwards. “What am I supposed to do? Martin’s expecting me back. I have responsibilities. How am I supposed to do any of it with a child? What kind of mother could I possibly be?”

The girl sniffled and lowered her arms turning to Lucien again. “What if I die?” she whimpered. “Lucien, I’m only twenty-five. I don’t want to die. But I wish I had,” she said and resumed her fevered pacing. “I wish Antoinetta had killed me. I wish you had killed me, back then. Why did you even bother with me? Gods I hate you. I hate you so much.”

She made her way back over to the fireplace and picked up her necklace and gazed at it, seeing her distorted reflection in the gemstone’s surface. “I miss you," her voice cracked. "Why did you let yourself get caught? Why didn’t you fight harder?” Felicienne turned her face upwards and cradled her talisman. “What am I supposed to do?”

Silence permeated the house and she slipped the amulet into her pocket and she slumped, shoulders rounding and she leaned against the wall. “You can’t stay there,” she rasped. She looked up at the rope that bound Lucien’s ankles and pulled a small chair over to her and stood atop it. Reaching for her hilt, she slid her dagger, blessed by the Night Mother, and severed his binds. She heard a squelch as his body connected with the floor and her world spun for a moment and she held onto the wooden beam above her head. She gripped onto it until the ground righted itself, and stepped off of her precarious stool.

Felicienne dragged the limp body outside, into the bitter morning, her back pinching under the strain, and set him in the snow. She spied a few farm tools: a rake, a hoe, a spade, and a shovel that were leaning against the side of the farmhouse. She pulled Lucien to a clearer spot near the little dwelling and warmed her hands, igniting a few embers between them. She waiting until she had a larger ball of flames and she rolled the fire over a piece of the land, melting the snow and softened the ground, turning it into mud and slush before she grabbed the shovel and began to dig into the earth, dirtying the hemline and sleeves of her robes. Her joints protested and cracked and she thought of Mathieu entombed with the Night Mother, in the deep dark, and slammed the shovel into the ground for the final time. Sweat gathered on her forehead and temples and dripped into her eyes and she blinked the sting away.

She slipped as she grabbed fistfuls of sodden earth and gagged as it stuck under her nails while she climbed out of the hole she dug. She took hold of one of his ankles and tugged and his body fell into the pit with a thud. Felicienne sat on the edge of the makeshift grave and sank her fingers into the ground while she watched the lazy snow collect on Lucien before she let loose a column of fire that she watched consume his body. It blazed for several moments, with her occasionally feeding more flames into it.

She thought that it might be appropriate to say a few words, but the words escaped from her, gossamer wings fluttering out of her reach and melting in the billows of blackened smoke that wafted from the earth.

When it simmered around the charred remains and her hammering heart slowed, she laid on her back, tilting her face towards the sky and snowflakes danced on their way down and dotted across her burned cheeks and clung to her lashes where they melted and left trails of silver water in their wake.

 

* * *

 

  
Martin sat at the table with his books spread before him, perusing I was Summoned by a Mortal, letting the heat of the recently stoked fire relax his back when he heard the door in the entryway creak open and saw the Breton’s diminutive form wander in from the cold, with hoarfrost clinging to her hair and dripping off, leaving a trail of droplets in her wake.

“Felicienne,” Martin called out, setting the book aside and rushing to her, relief flooding his blood and he placed his hands on her shoulders, barely touching her. “We’ve been trying to find you. I’ve sent several notes to Cheydinhal and heard nothing from you. Baurus has started searching around the province.”

“I forgot to check the post,” she mumbled with her eyes downcast.

He tried to catch her gaze, but she turned away. “Forgot? Felicienne,” he chastised, “we have to get the fourth part of the ritual. And it won’t be easy. It’s as I thought, the last piece is the direct counterpart to the Welkynd Stone: a Great Sigil Stone, similar to the ones you’ve been taking from the smaller Oblivion Gates,” he rushed. Then he stopped and looked at her, taking a hold of her chin and tilting her head to face him.

Her eyes were wide and shadowed, an unnatural sheen to them, her face wan and drawn, and her lips quivered and appeared bitten. Her face was smudged with old mud, and her face and neck were bottled with a patchwork of bruises. Finger-shaped marks that ranged from a sickly green and yellow hue to nearly black and violet.

"I'm sorry," she choked. "It's been a weird day."

“Akatosh,” he breathed. Then louder, “Are you alright? What’s happened?”

She didn’t say anything, just blinked at him, and he heard her arrhythmic breathing and watched her eyes refusing to settle on one place for long until her expression wilted and she collapsed, and he caught her, her frame wracked with deep, heaving sobs that drew the attention of the soldiers patrolling the main room. She fisted his blue robes in her hands, and held her, confused and startled.

“What’s wrong with me?” she cried, startling the guards nearby who cast disturbed looks towards the pair. “I can’t feel anything,” Felicienne told Martin. He saw her irises burn with a bright sheen over them, face finally flushing, and he went to pry her hands out from his clothing, but she grasped him harder, shaking him. “I can’t feel anything. What’s wrong with me, Martin? There’s nothing there,” she cried, her bony fingers turning white as they tangled in his robes. “I can’t feel anything; why can’t I feel anything?” He felt her shaking as she pleaded with him and he took her hands in his as she dissolved into tears. "What am I?" she asked.

Martin caught the glances of the soldiers and noticed that some of them regarded the pair with apprehension, and he shook his head at them, scowling. He tried to--gently--guide her to a more private setting, away from prying eyes. No doubt someone would inform Jauffre. Martin sighed; he would deal with that when the time came.

She needed to bath, and he escorted her to his rooms and had a washing basin prepared in a smaller chamber off to the side, the steam from the hot water curling in the balmy air. He guided the girl to a small stool in the middle of the room, where the water could drain, and began to turn so she could undress. Her grip strengthened when he turned to leave her to her own devices, and he swallowed and covered her hand with his own. She remained silent and her gaze never wavered from the floor.

He exhaled and placed his other hand on her shoulder. “You need to disrobe, so you can bathe. You’ll catch a chill if you walk around in wet clothing,” he told her, keeping his voice low and deep. She didn’t move and he bit his tongue, worrying it between his teeth as he considered her.

He felt his own hands shaking, and he sighed in relief when she nodded and let his arm go. He turned away as she unbuckled clasps and he heard the thud of boots hitting the ground and the way that wool and cotton rustled together and landed on the floor. He faced her again to lead to sit down on the stool, and he let out a sigh of relief upon seeing she left her smallclothes on. His eyes flickered over her form as Felicienne settled into the seat and he poured warm water over the girl’s hair. He started when Felicienne met his gaze and he looked away, his face hot with shame and racing blood.

He felt her hand touch the top of his, the pale limb contrasting against his more olive-toned skin.

The water turned murky as more and more of Felicienne’s flesh reappeared, dark bruises and silver scars exposed, and he scrubbed her hair and smoothed it away from her forehead. Her shoulders still shook with smothered hiccoughs and he let one hand linger on a knobby shoulder for a moment. After one more rinse, he helped her stand and Martin turned away from the rivulets of water that ran down Felicienne’s thighs. She wrapped herself in a linen cloth and Martin escorted her to the bedchamber where she might have some privacy.

He sent for clean garments as the Breton shivered in her covering, having discarded her drenched underwear, damp hair clinging to the sides of her face. He didn’t know what to do, so he just stroked her hair, untangling the knots he found with his fingers and sat with her. A chemise was brought to them and he helped Felicienne into that as well.

Felicienne laid down on the bed, the shift tangling around her legs and turning translucent in places water still lingered. He came behind her and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her hitching breath as her thin shoulders dug into his chest. His eyes drifted down to the necklace of bruises along her neck and decollete and touched them with his fingers, hesitantly, but she did not flinch away. He kept his gaze there, or on her face, or her perfumed hair, but still, he stirred.

Over the course of the next few moments she fell silent, only the occasional sniff could be heard and he let out a long sigh, rolling onto his back, keeping an arm around her. She followed his movement, resting on him.

“I don’t know how to help you,” he confessed, his voice a whisper in the still room as he let his fingers twine the strands of her hair around themselves. “It seems a waste that I can’t do anything for you when you’ve saved my life. And countless others as well.” He felt her shake her head against his chest before her weight lifted off of him, and she stared at him. Her cheeks were marred by tear tracks and her eyes glowed in the light of the room, a flush spreading across her nose and she leaned into him again, pushing her mouth onto his.

Martin felt her sobs renew, but brought his arms around her, letting himself kiss her back, opening his mouth under her ministrations, a sweet, almost herbal flavor bursting over his tongue.

He placed a hand on the bruised side of her face, whispering against it, and drew her up with him so that he sat against the headboard and she settled onto his lap. She tangled her fingers in his hair and ground down against his lap. He groaned at the contact, hips bucking, and she moved to slip her chemise off of her shoulders. He broke away.  
  
“Wait,” he told her, holding to her shoulders and sitting her back.

“Why?” she rasped, a sheen falling over her eyes again. “I thought, I thought you would--”

“You aren’t thinking clearly right now,” he said. “I’m not--I shouldn’t be here, with you like this--I would feel horrible to-to take advantage of you in this state,” he faltered, his thumbs still rubbing circles on her cheekbones.

“You wouldn’t be,” she insisted, moving towards him again. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. You feel like summer,” she said while she ran her little hands over his chest, questing for the opening of his garments while she rolled her hips in small circles over him and he swallowed a moan. He kissed her again and he ached. How he had ached for the last several months and she was finally here and he could touch her, that mixture of clover and nightshade invading his lungs and head as she writhed against him. He brought his hands to her hips, where the linen had bunched up, and slipped underneath to fondle the skin there, shivering. Her thighs clenched around him and he released a groan and trailed his mouth over her jaw and down her neck. She breathed his name in stuttered gasps and he pulled her against him tighter, licking up her throat and tonguing the pulse point beneath her earlobe. He felt a drop of moisture kiss the side of his face and he shuddered and dragged himself away.

He removed his hands from under her chemise and, gently, grabbed her wrists and felt his fingertips touch his thumbs and they held her. He searched her face when she glanced down, tear tracks and blown pupils and he sighed with the sweet taste of her mouth lingering on his tongue, and she looked away from him. “Martin?” she tried.

He removed her from his lap, keeping a hold of her. “Where did you get the Skooma?”

She moved to jerk out of his hands, but he held fast, ignoring the new tears that sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Felicienne,” he started, frowning. “I’m not--I’m not upset. Worried, yes, but not,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “I’m not angry.”

She didn’t say anything and she just hunched over and cried. He let her, clasping her hands, the pads of his thumb caressing them, and waited for her to say something.

When she broke their silence, it was a whisper. “I don’t remember, not really. I’ve had it for some time. Just a bottle. Not even half a bottle. It was left over from--a while ago, I guess. I just--I don’t know how to be, Martin.”

What a mess, he thought. How could he ask her to retrieve the sigil stone they needed, let alone enter Paradise, in the state that she was in. He told her as much and watched her flinch.

“I can do it, Martin,” she pleaded.

“Not like this you can’t.”

“I know, I won’t do it again. I promise.”

“I want to believe you, you know.” He told her, taking a hand and rubbing his brow. “You can’t do this again. You need your faculties with you.” He then placed a kiss on her forehead. “Take the next couple of days,” he felt her nod against him and smiled, “I will fill you in on what has transpired since your absence. And I’ll deal with Jauffre and the other Blades,” he added.

She exhaled and finally laid back against the bed. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want you to worry about that. Not right now. Just get some rest; you look like you need it.”

He saw a spectral smile paint her face and she let out a soft laugh, “Gee, thank you.”

“I mean it,” he scolded but grinned at her. “I’ll take care of everyone else. You’ve just been under a lot of strain.”  
  
He saw her frown. “Martin,” she began, but he shook his head.

“You’ve been under a lot of strain. That’s all this is,” he pressed. “Everyone will understand that.”

“The way I acted though,” she glanced away from him and he noticed her eyes filling again. “It’s not safe…”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing that it isn’t really your job to keep me safe, now is it? You aren’t a Blade. Or even a soldier.” He smiled at her and clasped her hand.

“I don’t do it because it’s my job, Martin,” she told him, still facing the wall, the armoire in his room, and he frowned. “I do it because I want to.” She took in another shaking breath and exhaled. “I’m sorry. It’s just...I’ve had a really bad few days,” she admitted, her voice breaking again. He saw her other arm come to wrap itself around her waist and he gave her hand a small squeeze.

He hushed her, pressing another kiss to the top of her head this time, and brought her gaze back to him. “Don’t apologize. Just try to get some rest now.”  
  
She sniffled and nodded, already settling into the covers. He made to leave when her hand darted out to hold his forearm.

“You don’t have to leave,” she told him, wincing. “I mean, you can if you want, but I--I really don’t want you to.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said to her. He didn’t remove his arm from her grasp.

“I can’t stand being by myself,” she confessed. “I really can’t, not right now. I’ve just had a really bad day. Please,” she pleaded, eyes gleaming and wet. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and breathed through his nose and nodded to her.

Martin climbed into bed behind Felicienne and she burrowed into his chest and he brought his arms around her once again. He felt her breath against him as her shoulders hitched with soft cries and he felt his robes dampen. He stroked her hair, the strands clinging to his fingers and felt the warmth of the bed cocoon him. He peered over her head as she quieted, the armoire in his line of vision. Annoyance burned in his chest and he shut his eyes, listening to Felicienne’s breathing while roses and nightshade blossomed around him, staining the air and pooling in the covers. He felt a thrumming in his abdomen that spread through him and he gulped it down, smothering it.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the top of the girl’s head and placed a kiss to her crown, inhaling the fragrance there and sank into the mattress with her, her locks tickling his jawline like the beat of butterfly wings.

“Martin,” he heard her say, her eyes still shut and her voice soft and dreamy.

He moved closer to her.

“I’m here,” the Imperial assured her.

The room fell silent once more and he felt sleep tug at his eyes and the heat from before lulling him deeper into the mattress. He started when he noticed her eyes open and gazing at him, alarmed by their sudden clarity.

“Is everything alright?” he ventured and reached a hand out to stroke her cheek.  
  
“I wish I’d gone when I’d had the chance,” she whispered before her eyes slid shut one more time. “I live, but yet not really,” she breathed after a beat. Martin stared at her, watching her twitching eyebrows and pouting mouth. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “I dream.”

He gazed at her for some time, the cloying scent of dampened decayed rose petals surrounding her, and it was some time before he found his rest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update! Also, a bit earlier than normal.  
> Please be kind, this was another chapter that was kind of a struggle. I rewrote a few scenes several times, and I know a few parts got a little surreal, but...there really is a reason for it, I swear. And I'm sure there are mistakes. I really do try to edit as much as I can, and I'll probably give the whole story one more good sweep when it's completely finished. As always, I'm so grateful for the support I've received while writing this story. I can't believe there are only four more chapters left. If you want to keep up with updating progress and plans for future stories (like the sequel) you can follow me on Tumblr at silencebrulant.tumblr.com


	23. Katabasis

  
A loud slam echoed through the halls of Cloud Ruler Temple.

“No, Martin, absolutely not,” Jauffre denied, palms flat on the table where the Xarxes lay.

Felicienne looked back and forth between the two men, both in armor, though Martin’s was a great deal more...ornate, she supposed. She felt her stomach flip on itself, and her lids slid shut and she swallowed it down.

“For what it’s worth,” she interjected, flinching when Jauffre glared at her, but she continued on, only looking at Martin, “I agree with Jauffre.”

She saw the Breton’s astonished expression and smiled at him, perhaps a bit on the smug side, but she smiled nonetheless.

Regaining his composure, he turned back to Martin. “You see, even she agrees with me,” the Grand Master stated. “It’s far too dangerous, for everyone. For Bruma, for you,” he emphasized.

“I appreciate your concern, but we have to let the Mythic Dawn open a gate here. The kind they opened at Kvatch. It’s the only way we can obtain a Great Sigil Stone. We have to let the Mythic Dawn attack Bruma.”

“Martin,” Felicienne started while she rubbed her forehead before moving to stand in front of him. She placed her hands on his biceps and held his gaze. “I know I’ve been difficult to deal with and this is a very stressful situation. Believe me, no one knows that more than I do. But taking a leave of your senses on this scale is not the way to solve this. And this is me talking.”

“I have already sent word to the Countess,” he admitted, “and she’s agreed to my plan.”

“Oh dear Akatosh,” Jauffre groaned.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Felicienne shrieked as she shook him before flinging her arms up. “Have you lost your gods’ damned mind?”

“I know the risk is great,” he carried on. “I was there at Kvatch, remember? They have a siege engine and, believe me, I know the terrible power they wield. We have no choice.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry that I think there are other ways, better ways, to get a sigil stone other than letting daedra pour in unchecked! They could overrun us,” she insisted, but it was clear he’d abandoned his good sense if even Jauffre couldn’t get him to change his mind. “You know what? I blame myself for this. I was too much. I’ve obviously driven you insane.”

The Imperial stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her forearms, holding them in his larger hands, and he looked down at her, his expression soft.

“Do you remember when we first met at Kvatch?”

“Oh, you mean when I saved you from exactly what you’re proposing we invite in now? Yes, I have a vague recollection of that.”

He smiled. “I told you I didn’t want to be any part of the gods’ plan. I still don’t know if there even is a plan. But, over the past months, I’ve realized it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we act. That we do what is right when confronted with evil. And that’s what you did at Kvatch. It wasn’t the gods that saved us; it was you. It was always you.”

She inhaled and swallowed the words gnawing at her throat to leap out at him, but she could only look at him, could only look at his smile and his blue eyes and open face. She huffed and her eyes flitted to look to the side before glaring back at him with her jaw set. “Nothing Jauffre or I say will change your mind, will it?”

“Not really.” He looked out of the window, beyond her shoulder and turned back to the pair he was speaking with. “We should get going, I’ve arranged for a council with Countess Narina in the Chapel of Talos. Baurus should already be there with her.”

Felicienne turned to Jauffre. “How did you not know any of this was going on?” she exclaimed, waving her arms above her head.

He glared at her and crossed his arms. “I don’t know. He must have learned the art of subterfuge from you.”

“Do not blame me for this. I’ve been running around all over Cyrodiil for you two. You’re the one that’s here every day.”

“We need to get going,” Martin interjected. “We have a lot to discuss before we can carry out our plans today.”

“What do you mean today?” Felicienne screamed. “What in Oblivion happened while I was gone?”

* * *

 

The troops were gathering outside the gates of Bruma, including the forces that Baurus had, apparently, been gathering over the last couple of months, and Felicienne would have a frank discussion with him the next time they were alone together. She found Martin, standing near the front, and nearly had a heart attack.

“What are you doing out here,” she hissed, grabbing his arm. “You’re supposed to be back in Cloud Ruler. You know, where you’re inside. And safe. Isn’t it enough that one of us,” she gestured towards herself, hitting her chest, “is risking their life going into that Gate? We don’t need to lose you. You know, the Emperor and the only one who can keep Oblivion from bleeding over in this world. Let Jauffre lead,” she pleaded.

“No,” he admonished her. “If I am to be Emperor, it’s about time I began to act like it. I’ll lead the defense of Bruma.”

“Why are you so stubborn?”

“I must have learned it from you.”

“Oh do not pin this on me. You’re older than me; you’ve had time to settle in your ways. This was always in you,” she snapped, scowling when she heard him chuckle.

“You’re probably right,” he said. “I think your bullheadedness just brought it out of me.”

“Fine, do what you want. You won’t listen to sense. I wash my hands of this,” she snipped at him, flustered and crossed her arms in front of her.

“You’re adorable when you’re concerned.”

She blushed. “I--shut up. I’m angry with you.”

“We have to do this,” he said to her.

“Whatever,” she grumbled. “What needs to happen?” she sighed.

“Burd’s men will stop closing the Gates out here. At least three need to be open in order for a Great Gate to open. The Great Gate will allow them to bring the siege engine out to blast the walls of Bruma like they did at Kvatch.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, his gauntlets indenting her softer leather armor. “It’s dangerous, you know this. You will have to act swiftly when the Gate opens. If--should you fail, Bruma falls and it’s over.”

“Wow,” she sniffled, bringing her gloved hands up to swipe at her eyes, leaving reddened skin in their wake. “Way to take the pressure off,” she laughed.

“I have complete faith in you.”

“You shouldn’t,” she told him in a brittle breath. “Martin, I--”

“Hush now,” he chastised. “We’re all allowed our weaknesses every now and then. And I’ve seen what you’re capable of. No matter what, you always seem to pull through, even in the most dire of scenarios,” he laughed, sweeping his arm out towards the crowd of soldiers as Burd ordered his men down.

“Damn it, Martin,” she sniffled, wiping her face again and smoothing her hair. She huffed. “I guess you better go down there and rally the troops. They’re all fighting for you, you know.”

He shook his head. “They shouldn’t. They should be fighting for themselves. For their families. Their homes. Otherwise, what are we really fighting for?”

“To stop an apocalypse?”

He smiled at her. “Yes, of course.”

* * *

 

  
Endless daedra seemed to spill from the flaming gates, the snow slush littered with corpses and blood and viscera. Jauffre had been struck down, but Baurus took the man away, presumably somewhere safe, and Felicienne scanned the field for Martin and signs of the Great Gate opening. She felt the impact of what she could assume was a mace across her back, knocking the wind out of her, and felt an icy blast as a frostball flew over her head and hit her assailant. She looked back up and saw Martin, who held his hand out to help her up.

“You need to pay attention,” he shouted.

“I was looking for you,” she argued.

“Don’t worry about me right now. We need you to stay alive.”

She started to argue, but then noticed Martin’s gaze locked to a point behind her.

“There,” he said, spinning her around, and she fought down a heave. “The Great Gate. It’s opening. You need to close the Gate; we’ll try to hold off the rest of the daedra as long as we can. Hurry,” he pushed her towards the portal, and she sprinted towards it, her legs and lungs burning as she dodged various scamps and daedroth. A dremora made to grab her and she brought her hand to his face and shot a jolt of electricity through him and she pushed him off. The warmth of the Gate radiated into the air, and she felt her body warm.

She leapt inside, flames licking her face and the smoke from burnt flesh assaulted her breath.

 

 

Blistering heat greeted her as she emerged on the other side of the Gate, in Dagon’s Deadlands. The first thing she saw upon entering was the ominous siege crawler, with its glowing eye and insect-like appendages that could only be referred to as legs. It revealed itself as the war gate in front of her slowly opened. The temperature scalded her, dripping into the leather she wore and it felt as though it melted into her skin. She watched for patrolling dremora, letting the green shimmer of invisibility rove over her skin, sending tingles across her flesh, as she stepped lightly, keeping to the edges of the road.

She touched her stomach.

A shock of adrenaline raced through her whenever she had to renew the spell, keeping an eye out for both daedra and for those spinning flamethrowers the residents here seemed so fond of. When she entered the main tower, she clung to the sides, holding her breath when a dremora paused near her, scanning the hallway. She squeezed her lids shut until she felt the hum of their presence dissipate and her heart descended from her mouth.

She felt like weeping when she entered the Sigillum Sanguis and, ignoring the daedric guards as best she could, dashed up the ramp and jumped off of the platform, grabbing a hold of the Great Sigil Stone as fire and electricity zipped past her, stinging her flesh and scorching her armor, when the surrounding world flashed hot and white, and she fell.

 

 

She gasped, laying on her back, feeling the cold snow melt on her face, the siege crawler not ten feet away. She heard Martin calling her name, and she noticed a weight wrapped in her arms and she looked down, the Great Sigil Stone in her arms. She tilted her head back to see Martin, wonderful, beautiful Martin in his blood-splattered armor, running towards her, his face pale and drawn and she saw dark water swirling around him and rushing in her ears, drowning out the dying sounds of battle. The last of the remaining daedra, now cut off from the Deadlands, being put to the sword.

She laughed before she slipped under.

 

* * *

 

 

“We have little time to waste, Your Majesty,” Jauffre said, now back in the safety of Cloud Ruler, his wounds tended to and patched.

Martin nodded. They’d already lost a day; they couldn’t afford any more, at this point. But he wanted to give Felicienne a bit of time to recover. She had woken not long after she swooned, but he wanted her to sleep a bit before they sent her to Camoran’s Paradise.

They had no idea what she would find there.

“I have everything ready, the Rose, Tiber Septim’s armor, both of the Great Stones, the Xarxes, I just need to perform the ritual. I’ll fetch Felicienne. She must be itching to get started,” he chuckled. Jauffre nodded and frowned. The Breton inhaled, raising his hand, but let it fall to his side with a sigh.

“We will be here, waiting, Your Majesty.”

Martin opened up the barracks to find Felicienne standing there, alone. She turned to him and smiled.

“Are you ready for the ritual?” she asked.

“I am. How about you?”

“Well, I'm dressed, got my dagger, a couple potions, helped to assemble all the puzzle pieces...I think I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be,” she laughed. “I think I really just needed a nap. Thank you for that, by the way. I know that was your doing.”

He approached her and took her hands in his. “I want to tell you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for us. For me. I wish there was a way to adequately repay you.”

She ducked her head and blushed before rubbing the back of her neck.

“Oh, Martin…”

“I mean it,” he interrupted. “I know this isn’t at all what you had planned when you came to Cyrodiil. I don’t think anyone could have planned for this,” he chuckled. “It’s almost over,” he breathed. “I look forward to getting to know you without the threat of imminent death looming over us,” he told her.

“You want to get to know me?” she teased.

“More than anything,” he replied. “Nothing would give me greater happiness.”

“Oh come now,” she mumbled, looking at her feet. “I’m not that great. As you’ve seen. You’ll get to know me and regret making that decision,” she smiled at him.

“I don’t care.”

She glanced up at him, through her lashes, giving him that odd half-smile he’d become accustomed to, that he couldn't help but smile back at, her blue irises glimmering in the pale light. He swallowed.

I will never meet anyone like this again, he thought as a weight settled in his chest, dragging his lungs to his stomach and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and another to her forehead. She peered up at him, a moue on her face as she sucked on her bottom lip. He looked into her eyes, seeing himself and the glitter of lanterns reflected in them and held his arm out to her. “Come on, now, Paradise awaits.”

 

* * *

 

Felicienne watched Martin prepare the ritual, Baurus and Jauffre standing on opposite sides of the room. A large sigil was drawn on the floor, and she thought she recognized it from one of the pages of the Mysterium Xarxes, and the tome itself, and she saw that, at the four corners of the sigil, lay the Rose, the armor, and the Welkynd and Sigil stones.

“I have everything ready,” Martin announced. He gestured for her to come up beside him. “I’ll open the portal whenever you’re ready, but please be aware that the portal created here will close once you enter it. You--you will have to find another way back.” He gazed down at her and told her “I believe that Mankar Camoran acts as a sort of ‘anchor’ to Paradise, as the sigil stones do for Oblivion Gates. You’ll have to kill him to unmake his Paradise.”

She nodded and heaved a long sigh. “Well, ready when you are.”

A shimmering hole tore itself open above the ground, dissolving the items place around it until large claw-like structures cradled it and it solidified into a glowing orb.

“Our fate is in your hands. Bring the Amulet of Kings back. And--and stay safe,” he said, grabbing her wrist before she made to enter. “Please bring yourself back as soon as possible.”

She grinned and stepped into the orb.

 

 

The first thing she noticed was how beautiful it was where she landed. The air was fresh and sweet, the weather balmy, and it was in a state of seemingly perpetual sunrise. She walked around, feeling the lush grass give way under her boots as she approached what looked like an Ayleid ruin, though it was...less ruinous, she supposed.

Of course, that was before she heard the distant screaming.  
  
“ _So, the cat's-paw of the Septims arrives at last_ ,” a familiar voice rang inside her head as she remembered a damp cave and rushing water overhead, and her first encounter with the glowing portal of Paradise. “ _You didn't think you could take me unawares, here of all places? In the Paradise that I created? Look now, upon my Paradise, Gaiar Alata, in the old tongue. A vision of the past...and the future._ ”

“Alright, I have had enough of strange voices in my head. Especially ones who never get tired of hearing themselves talk,” she grumbled, pulling her hair. She made her way around and noticed the entrance to what looked like a garden, She walked towards it, but jumped when she saw a dremora approach her. She engulfed her hands in ice and held them up, tense as a bow-string, but he did not make any sort of aggressive move towards her, and instead lowered his weapon and he came to stand before her.

All seven feet of him.

Her eyes widened as she craned her head up to look at him and took a step back, and scowled when he chuckled.

“You destroyed the Sigil Tower at Ganonah,” he growled, the voice sending shudders down her esophagus and reverberated in her teeth.

“Never heard of it,” she shot back.

“Our clan sacked your city of Kvatch.” He then scoffed and crossed his arms, the action startling a laugh out of her. He glared. “A trifling task fit for scamps. Your swift retribution earned you much respect among my people. We had not expected that a mortal would act with such resolution and honor. It is no dishonor for us to speak.”

“Thank you for that,” she deadpanned, folding her own arms in front of her. “Look, I need to find that son of a bitch Mankar Camoran, and I don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

He looked pleased, which didn’t sit well with her. “You speak directly, like one of my people almost. I’m glad I did not kill you immediately.”

“Kind of makes two of us.”

He stepped closer to her, sniffing the air, and considered her. “You aren’t like other mortals though. What are you, tiny mortal?”

She stepped back and glared. “Mage on the cusp of Shadow, what are you?”

“I have no time for your games.”

“I’m not in a game-playing mood. What do you want from me?” she snapped at him, tapping her foot. She rolled her shoulders back to alleviate the ache that had taken root there. He followed her movement, and she stood straighter.

“There is one way out of the Garden,” he gestured around them, “and I guard that path. You will travel that path and it will bring me honor to defeat you. But you shamed my kin at Ganonah. To bring you into my service...that would also bring me honor. So I offer you a choice. Would you confront me in battle, or offer me service?”

“Hang on,” she held a hand up. “I have some questions.”

“You impertinent mortal. I did not offer to answer questions.”

“Humor me for a second. What kind of service are we talking about?” she ploughed on, raising an eyebrow at him.

He grumbled but relaxed his stance. “There is a task I would prefer you handle.”

She looked at him, and looked around her, eyeing the exit. Then she sighed. “I choose that second option, then, the service.”

He hummed and rubbed his chin. “The task I have in mind will test both your wit and loyalty--"

"Obviously," she muttered.

"There is a Xivilai," he continued, narrowing his dark eyes at her, "Anaxes, who is imprisoned by the rabble of the Savage Garden. His humiliation is a fitting punishment, but this shame attaches to me as well. The matter is too small for my attention, but would not be for one of my servants.”

She drew back and mouthed “servants?” He chuckled.

If you free him,” he continued, “I will reward you with the key to the Forbidden Grotto. The Bands of the Chosen”.”

“Free him?”

“Yes, free him,” the dremora snapped. “The chattel here, Camoran’s ‘chosen,’ have no honor or courage, and shy from battle, and instead they use trickery to achieve victory.” Felicienne scuffed her feet on the grass and looked away. “They are meant to test their resolve here, but they are cowards, as they are not true immortals and constantly fear death.”

“I can see how that would be a problem,” she mumbled.

“Then go, mortal,” he snarled. “Free Anaxes and I will give you the Bands. Do not keep me waiting.”

 

 

Not for the first time, Felicienne wondered how she often wound up running errands for daedra. Sheogorath, Sanguine, now this dremora. “Never again,” she muttered. “Too many daedra. Too many men.” She frowned. “Too many daedra men. Are they even men? They don’t really have forms. Unless it suits them,” she mused, her face suffused with color and she shook her head, hugging her arms around herself. “I should just join a cloistered order. Like for Mara or Kynareth,” she mumbled as she walked the pathway the dremora pointed out. "No more daedra."

She approached the boulder that held Anaxes, and moved it, letting him step out of his prison.

“Rough day?” she asked. He growled at her. “I am in no mood," she told him, "so settle down, your master sent me.”

“Kathutet?”

“Is that his name?” she asked. “He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. You should get back to him. He seemed pretty pissed.”

“I have brought shame to him, for allowing myself to be tricked by mortals.”

“Yes, so I heard. Sorry about that.”

 

She walked with the Xivilai towards the Garden, and Kathutet walked towards her and handed a set of bracers over to her.

“At last,” he scolded as she received the items, placing them on her wrists. “But you have served me well and in return for that service, you can have these. Wear them or you cannot enter the Forbidden Grotto, the only way out of the Eternal Garden.”

He paused and let a long sigh out. “Honor and pride bid me tell you: none can escape the Forbidden Grotto. There you will be the charge of my kynsman, Orthe.”

She accepted the bands with a swallow and weak smile, and he gave her a curt nod and walked away from her.

* * *

 

“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” she uttered as she entered a cave. Unlike the entrance of Paradise, it was cold and dank, moss and mold clung to the corners and scented the stale air. She walked down, deeper within, and felt the cave growing warmer, and smelled sulfur and the all-too-familiar odor of charred meat. She frowned and happened upon an arched doorway and crept inside the mouth of a larger chamber, an eerie glow washing over the stone. She’d only made a few paces within when a voice echoed off of the walls.

“You know, of course, that you cannot leave the Grotto, as you cannot remove the Bands, yes?”

She turned to see an Altmer approach her.

“Excuse me?”

“The Bands of the Chosen. They keep you here. You cannot escape,” he continued. He stepped into the light, wearing the deep scarlet of the Mythic Dawn, the cowl obscuring his face.

“And who are you?”

“You can call me Eldamil. I was one of Mankar Camoran’s lieutenants. I can help you remove those bracers.”

“Sorry if I seem rude, but why? You people have spent the better half of the year trying to kill me, so forgive me if it seems like it would be a stupid idea to ask for your help,” she snapped.

“I was one of the Chosen,” he admitted. “I helped to plan the Emperor’s assassination, and I opened the Great Gate at Kvatch.”

“Why in Oblivion would I want your help then?” she interrogated. “Just so you know, the only reason why I’m not killing you is because I know that, here, you’d just pop right back up.” She paused, glaring at him. “How did you wind up here anyway?”

He slumped, his tall frame hunched and shoulders curved inwards. “I was hunting down survivors from Kvatch when I was killed by three townsfolk hiding in a cellar.”

“Fucking good,” the Breton interjected. “I hope it was agonizing.”

He turned his face away from her glower and nodded. “I have, obviously, lost favor with the master,” he confessed. “He has grown weary with my weakness. Seeing what’s happened here, how his Chosen are treated, killed again and again, with no end in sight to ‘prepare’ us for Dagon’s takeover of Tamriel...I can’t. I--I do regret what I’ve done, and Camoran has placed me here to torture others who have expressed a similar...ingratitude...for the gift of eternal life.”

“And you want to help me?” She stood, her hands on her hips, tilted to one side. “Why should I even begin to believe you?”

“Are you here to kill Mankar Camoran?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then know that I want him dead and his Paradise destroyed. I do not care what happens to me beyond that. I just want this to stop. We were never intended for this immortality.”

She clenched her jaw and tapped her foot against the ground for several moments. “Fine,” she snapped. “What do you need me to do?”

“Act like a prisoner and don't panic,” he told her.

“What?”

“Don’t worry; it’ll make sense in a moment.”

“Eldamil,” another graveled voice shouted, leading the Breton to jump. “Who is this you’re speaking with?”

“Newest prisoner. Sent in by--”

“Show me some respect,” the dremora snarled. “Unless you want to end up in the cages with them.”

“Yes, kynreeve. Sir. This prisoner was sent in by Kathutet for questioning. I was about to begin.”

The dremora glared at Felicienne, who shrank back and ducked her head. “This is not one of Camoran’s chattels from the Garden. Who is she?”

The Altmer simpered. “Nothing escapes your vigilance, kynreeve. Kathutet wondered as well. This is why he sent her for questioning.”

The dremora nodded. “Well, carry on then.”

The dremora grabbed the girl’s arm and dragged her over to a cage suspended over a pit of magma. Upon seeing it, she began to thrash in his grasp, and he struck her across her face, his gauntlet slicing her cheek open and a trickle of blood ran into her mouth. “Get in there,” he growled.

Felicienne looked over the Eldamil, who nodded. She stepped inside, and the cage began to lower. “Hey wait!” she shrieked. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she asked, nearing hysterics.

“Be quiet, girl,” Eldamil snapped.

Satisfied, the dremora looked over both the cage and Eldamil, then walked out. Then the cage stopped and she almost cried as she wrapped her arms around herself, one hand resting on her pelvis. As it began its ascent, the Altmer came face to face with a heated glare and a small shock of lightning striking him as slim fingers grabbed him.

“What the fuck was that about?” she snarled, gripping the front of his robes.

“He had to think you were a prisoner. I told you not to worry,” he gasped.  
  
“You were lowering me into a pit of lava. Sorry I panicked; I’m unreasonable like that.”

“In any case,” he interrupted, gently prying her fingers off of him, “you need to meet me in the next room. I’ll get those off of you, and I can help you with Camoran.”

She scoffed. “Whatever.”

* * *

 

“So, here you are at last,” another Altmer said when Felicienne and Eldamil approached the entrance to what Eldamil had told her was the Camoran’s palace.

“Oh, it’s you two. Camoran’s your father, right?” Felicienne asked, looking between the two high elves, brother and sister apparently. “From the sewers. And Lake Arrius. Didn’t I already kill both of you? Some father, leaving his children to die.”

“You still think you have a chance, don’t you, lackey,” the man--Raven, she thought--snarled. “Our father has granted us eternal life, you miserable little worm. We knew you would find your way here eventually." The elf shook his head and continued, "But it is of no consequence; our father is waiting for you. He expected you hours ago.”

“Sorry to keep him waiting then. I'm sure he's a busy man. You know, with all the torture and plots for world domination and everything.”

“You have a smart mouth on you,” Ruma sneered. “You best watch your tone.”

Felicienne sighed and shrugged. “Look, this is going to end one way or the other. So we best get to it.”

The two siblings led her and her companion down the path into the Palace, Carac Agaialor, according to the periodic chattering in her head. It was, she would admit, an impressive structure. A testament to Camoran’s ego, she assumed. Huge and sprawling. She thought it might be more ornate than the Imperial Palace in Cyrodiil and she scoffed under her breath. Such a beautiful place for such a horrible 

She stepped inside, behind Raven and Ruma, alongside Eldamil.

And there Mankar Camoran stood, in the middle of his throne room, grinning from ear to ear with the Amulet of Kings swinging from his neck. Felicienne pursed her lips and watched as the siblings took their places next to their father as he stood up.

“I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel.You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of false hope. How little you understand!”

Felicienne saw Raven and Ruma watch at their father, their gaze never leaving him and she thought she noticed tears pooling. She rolled her eyes; Camoran wasn’t even looking at her.

“You cannot stop Lord Dagon. The walls between our worlds are crumbling. The Mythic Dawn grows nearer with every rift in the firmament. Soon, very soon, the lines now blurred will be erased. Tamriel and Oblivion rejoined! The Mythic Age reborn!”

He also seemed to have Eldamil’s attention; the man stood somewhat ahead of her and stared at his former master, fear apparent on his face. She slipped her hand to her hip, her fingers running along the ebony handle of her dagger, and she sighed, her skin buzzing with the thrum of magicka coursing through it.

“Lord Dagon shall walk Tamriel again. The world shall be remade. The new age shall rise from the ashes of the old. My vision shall be realized. Weakness will be purged from the world, and mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire. My long duel with the Septims is over, and I have the mastery.” Camoran laughed and raised his arms up, tilting his head to the ceiling.

“The Emperor is dead. The Amulet of Kings is mine. And the last defender of the last ragged Septim stands before me, in the heart of my power. Let us see who at last has proved the str--!”

A dagger whipped past Eldamil’s head and embedded itself, halfway to the hilt, in Mankar’s throat, cutting him off with a choked gasp and a wet sputter that echoed in the still chamber before he crumpled to the ground, blood pouring down the front of his robes as he gurgled. Raven and Ruma looked to each other, mouths agape before turning--along with Eldamil--their faces towards Felicienne, and she laughed, high-pitched and thin, her eyebrows raised and her eyes almost comically wide.

And the three elves collapsed and the palace began to crumble, everything around her disintegrating and breaking apart, flying past her as she fell and fell and fell, the white light rushing up to greet her, and she felt a weight in her pocket.

 

 

She found herself back in Cloud Ruler, on top of the burnt out sigil Martin had drawn, and the now destroyed Mysterium Xarxes. The room continued to spin as several Blades and Martin himself hurried towards her, and she reached into her pocket to pull out the ruby-red Amulet of Kings, candlelight gleaming on its faceted surface. She sat up and handed it to Martin, who took it from her with trembling hands.

“You dropped something,” she breathed, her lips quirking. “I think this belongs to you.”

He laughed. “You found a way back.”

“Yeah. Camoran’s dead,” she whispered.

“Well, there it is. You’ve done it.” He crouched down and held her face in his hands. “We just need to light the Dragonfires now.”

She nodded and sniffled before her eyes widened and she put a palm up to her mouth as she pushed Martin away and he caught himself before he stumbled backward. She then leaned over on all fours and lost the contents of her stomach all over the remains of the Xarxes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happened in this chapter, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I feel like the closer I get to the end the less sure I am about the way it's gone or the way I've written it. So I'm posting it now before I lose all grip on my sanity editing and re-editing. This chapter was also, I feel, very dialogue-heavy (some in-game, some not) compared to some of my other ones, which I'm not sure how I feel about either. If there are any mistakes in here (like grammar or spelling) I really did look this over several times, but I will be editing the whole thing one final time when I've completed this and (probably) the sequel. Three more chapters to go! Again, if you want to keep up with me, check out my blog at silencebrulant.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you to everyone for their comments and kudos and bookmarks. Seeing the notifications for those brings a huge smile to my face and I'm so grateful for the support I've received with this project. I'm still kind of in awe over it. So much love to you all!


	24. Go Down Then, if Love You Must

Martin decked out in full Imperial regalia, sat in the carriage with Felicienne as they made their way down to the Imperial City to put Martin in front of the Elder Council to claim his title as Emperor. 

 

“I can’t believe it’s almost over,” she said. “You ready, Your Majesty?”

 

He laughed and placed his hand over hers as she sat across from him. “You never need to call me that.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, there’s a certain ring to it,” she laughed. “Come on, if I had the opportunity, I would absolutely make everyone call me that.” She sat up a little straighter in her seat and leaned towards the Imperial. “And not just that,” she gushed, “I’d make them call me Your Grace, for example.Your Luminescence. Light of Nirn. Glorious Reflection of Magnus,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Her Illustriousness, the Hero of Kvatch. Any number of those, really.”

 

“I’m sure you would.” He looked at her and smiled; she wore a rather unusual light blue gown, with white lace and gold embroidery woven through it, and her hair was worn up off of her neck and looked quite fetching with the way stray waves fell around her face. He’d never seen her dressed in this manner. Of course, he usually saw her in either linens or armor. Or robes. “You look lovely,” he vocalized.

 

He watched her cheeks pinken and he smiled. “I just--I mean, it’s not every day you get to go to a coronation, now is it?” She glanced up again. “Especially one that’s going to save the world,” she laughed. “Thought I’d look nice for your big day. And you don’t look so bad yourself. Royalty suits you.” Felicienne sighed and turned her face towards the window. “I hate carriage rides,” she admitted. “They make me nauseous.”

 

He reached to touch her palm. “Do you need us to slow down?”

 

“Oh no,” she laughed. “We have an invasion to stop. My motion sickness can wait. Besides, I have some ginger root Cirroc gave me before we left Bruma.” She made a face. “I’ll be fine. It won’t be long now, anyway. Maybe an hour at most.”

 

Martin acquiesced but did not remove his hand. “We could have waited; we didn’t need to leave straight away,” he said.

 

She shook her head, smiling. “Don’t be silly,” she chastised. “I feel so much better now. I’m completely fine. I think it’s just all the popping back and forth between Oblivion and Nirn.” She shrugged and turned back towards the budding Heartlands, the perfume of damp soil and dew passing through the carriage.

 

He stared at her, glancing down to where his hand rested before returning to her face.

“Afterwards,” he began, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I would very much like us to talk.”

 

“Of course. I mean, we could talk now,” she said, still gazing out the window and breathing in the fresh air. He watched the way the sunbeams fell over her face, dappled with shadows from the carriage and passing tree branches. Her fair skin glowed in the early light, even her inky locks reflected a hint of chestnut now, and he sighed around a knot in his chest.

 

“No no, this is something I feel we should do when we’re not--not rushed.”

 

“Alright,” she said, voice low and tones round. “Is everything alright?”

 

“More than. I only desire to discuss certain matters with you.”

 

“Oh,” she let a small smile show. “Anything I should know about?”

 

“I will tell you later,” he laughed. 

 

“Fine, fine, be that way, Lord I-have-to-make-sure-the-Elder-Council-accepts-me. I mean, you’re already wearing the damned Amulet. I’m sure they’re not going to contest your claim, especially given the circumstances. But whatever.”

 

“I just want everything to transition smoothly.

 

She took her free hand and placed it on top of Martin’s, sandwiching his large palm between her pale hands. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

As the small retinue approached the palace, Felicienne saw Baurus walking up to them. 

 

“Sire,” he greeted Martin, and nodded towards Felicienne. “Chancellor Ocato is expecting you. He’s heard word of your arrival to the Capital.” 

 

“Very well, then,” Martin said, and Felicienne saw the minute shaking in his hands and placed hers on his arm, smiling at him. He let out an amused huff and they followed behind Baurus.

 

They entered the chambers, and Ocato rose to greet them. “I am glad to see you have all made it here. I have been expecting you.” He turned to address Martin and bowed. “The Council has already considered the matter of your claim to the throne.” The Altmer stood up, smiling, and Felicienne thought he appeared relieved. “Martin Septim, on behalf of the Elder Council, I accept your claim to the Imperial Throne. We should--” he was cut off by a large boom that shook the ground.

 

“Are you kidding me?” Felicienne shouted and held her hand up, covered in frost, and the Blades all drew their weapons. The sounds of screaming and thunderbolts soon made their way into the palace, the candles and lantern flames flickering and jumping inside the council office, and Baurus cursed and sent out a couple of Blades to scout the area, but after a particularly loud clap of thunder, a soldier burst through the chamber door. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Ocato questioned.

 

“The city is under attack, chancellor,” the soldier stated. Felicienne mumbled a “no kidding” and received a sharp look from Martin. The messenger was scorched and bruised, and his armor had certainly seen better days, but he appeared mostly intact, if a bit panicked. “Oblivion Gates have been opening and the daedra are within the city walls. We’re overwhelmed,” he said, his eyes flitting between Martin and Ocato, and Felicienne bit back a giggle, feeling it churn inside her throat and digging at her lips as her chest ached.

 

Ocato turned to Martin. “What are your orders, Your Highness? Should the guard fall back to the palace?”

 

Martin shook his head. “No, if they do that we’ll be besieged. We have to get to the Temple of the One, immediately.” He turned to Felicienne. “Dagon must be getting desperate. We have to get to the temple,” he told her. “If we don’t, there could be no stopping him.” 

 

Felicienne nodded and grabbed Martin by the arm and kept him behind her, her active palm in front of them. She tilted her head back to face him, a small grin pulling on her lips. “Figures,” she said, “the one day I decide to dress nice.”

 

“Well, can’t worry about that now, now can we? Besides,” he chuckled. “I’ve seen you throw an ice blast or two. I think I’m in capable hands.”

 

As soon as he uttered the words, a crash and the sound of splintering wood and bending metal resounded through the room. Daedra broke the door to the chamber down and spilled inside, and Felicienne, Baurus, and Martin fought their way out when the other soldiers had everything in hand. Exiting the palace showed a grim sight: Oblivion Gates opening and daedra pouring into the city streets, bodies littering the ground and the sulphuric and ozone loomed over the city and choked it, the sky a deep burnt orange. 

 

Felicienne felt a hand tug at her elbow and turned towards its source. Martin stood beside her, his forehead and mouth etched with lines that casted deep shadows over his features. “We have to get to the temple, Felicienne,” he insisted and tightened his grip, only slightly, and she nodded. 

  
  
  


She watched people drift past her backwards and explosions floated through the air. She saw her and Martin, and another soldier who came up to them. Martin was yelling, but she couldn’t hear him as their voices melted into the ash and fire and the rushing of magicka whistling through the district. She watched them move through the daedra, embers falling all around them as she flung ice spell after ice spell against their assailants and soldiers were cut down, trampled by daedroth and dremora. And Martin grabbed her hand and the roaring of the sky filled her ears as the world around her began to spin again, and she pulled him towards the Temple District.

 

They pushed the gate open with Jauffre, Baurus, and a couple other soldiers flanking them. Hordes of daedra continued to cover the city, even as they were dispatched, more would take their places. She turned to see Martin, drenched in sweat, with various nicks to his face and burns from the hot ash that rained from the sky. 

 

The ground shook beneath their feet once they approached the temple, knocking them back and Martin steadied the Breton. Another tremor rippled across the street, and a large red foot came down near them. 

 

“We’re too late,” Martin breathed his head tilted up to peer at the scarlet beast that dominated the sky and dwarfed the temple. Felicienne followed his line of sight and felt lead pool in her stomach. “Dagon is here,” he told her. “Lighting the Dragonfires--the Dragonfires will no longer save us...the barriers between us and Oblivion are gone.”

 

He grabbed her to duck under the awning, opposite of the temple door and out of sight for the time being. She saw Dagon crush an entire group of fleeing civilians in one swoop, heard the wet thump their bodies made under his foot, and retched before Martin pulled her to him and peered into her eyes. He touched her cheek.

 

“Felicienne--”

 

“Can’t we send him back to Oblivion?” she shrieked and coughed through the smoke and heat.

 

He grew pensive and held her tighter. “I don’t see how we would do it. Mortal weapons can hurt him, yes, but now that he is physically here in Tamriel, they have no power to actually destroy him.”

  
  
  


A frigid fist gripped her heart as Felicienne Sauveterre felt her vision cloud and she sniffled. He brought his palm up to her cheek and pressed his forehead against hers. She wet her lips, tilting her face towards his and her mouth trembled as she spoke. “Martin. Martin, I need to--” 

 

The glint of scarlet caught her eye as the Amulet reflected the lightning off of itself. 

 

“What about the Amulet of Kings?” she interrupted herself. “If it can be used to seal the barriers between the worlds, couldn’t we use it now? Some way?”

 

His brows furrowed, but he didn’t dismiss the idea right away. He hummed. “That might work,” he murmured. “The Amulet was given to mortals by Akatosh--it contains his divine power,” he explained “But how do we use it against Dagon?” he mused. “The Amulet was not intended to be a weapon…” He brought a hand to the Amulet and stroked it. “I have an idea. I must reach the Dragonfires,” he told her. 

 

“Why? What are you going to do? Tell me,” she pleaded with him.

 

He shook his head. “You’ll just have to trust me.” His face grew long and he set his jaw. “I know what I was born to do. But I need your help.”

 

“Wait, Martin…”

 

“Please,” he said. “I’ve trusted you all of this time, just trust me this once. You’ll know soon enough.”

 

She nodded. “Let’s go then. I’ll get you past Dagon.”

 

“Then I’ll do the rest.” He ran his fingers over her face and stared at her, and she felt the weight of his gaze skim over her flesh as she saw him bite onto his lip. “Lead on,” he told her, softly, and he gave her a smile. 

  
  


“We don’t have much time,” Martin said when they ran into the temple, Felicienne slamming the door behind them. He rushed to the altar, and she followed, stopping short when he turned back to her and took her hands in his . He searched her face, feeling his own eyes sting. 

 

“Martin, what--?”

 

He shushed her, and touched her face again. “I told you to trust me. I do what I must,” he murmured. “This is the work I have to do. I know why I am here now, and it is not to rule or rebuild Tamriel. That task will fall to others,” he said, his thumbs drifting over her jawline before travelling back down to clasp her palms again. “You’ve been a good friend,” he scoffed, glancing at their joined hands and shook his head, a smile on his face. “More than a friend, even in the short time that I’ve known you,” he chuckled, bringing her hand up to kiss the tops of her knuckles. “I remember when we first met, and you were so angry with me, but you saved us.” He huffed, his lips still curled. “You saved all of us there, in the Chapel of Akatosh. Even then, I remember thinking I had never seen anything so beautiful.”

 

“That was just the shock,” she choked out, clenching his hands in hers, and he squeezed back. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her tremulous voice drifting to his ears, floating over the sounds of chaos outside. “Martin, what are you going to do?” she repeated, and he watched her eyes widen and shine before she squeezed them shut and tilted her face away from him.

 

“Felicienne,” he let out a shuddering breath. “Felicienne, listen to me. There isn’t much time. Listen to me,” he insisted. “I should have said these things earlier. I thought we’d have time.” He shook her, gently, so that she turned back to him and he could see her eyes. “I love you,” he told her. “I will always love you. Fiercely.” He saw her blink, her lids fluttering over blue orbs, water trickling over one smooth cheek. “I have never been more honored to have known someone like you,” he told her, his throat wrapped in thorns, “and I doubt I would have ever met anyone else who would have come close.” 

 

Whatever had been holding her back broke and she wilted and dissolved into tears and she tried to fling her arms around him, but he held her back. 

 

“I’ll be alright,” he assured her. He was aware of his own eyes pooling and he brought his hands up to her face again, smoothing away the droplets there. “You know, more than anyone, that the hardest thing to do in this world is to live in it. But I need you to be strong. I need you to be strong one more time, sweetheart.” 

 

He kissed her, his hands sliding up in her long disheveled hair and she clung to him like a creeping vine. “Be brave,” he whispered, pulling back from her. “I want you to live.” He swallowed, still touching her face, everywhere his hands could reach. “I do go gladly,” he assured her, “Because of you, and Baurus, and Jauffre, I know that my sacrifice is not in vain. When the next Elder Scroll is written, you will be its scribe.” 

 

“This isn’t the time to talk in riddles!” she shouted at him through broken glass. “Martin, please don’t go. Let me. I can do it. I’ll think of something,” she begged, gripping onto his robes. “I just need more time, Martin.”

 

He shook his head. “My dear, it is not for you to handle this time. This is not your burden to bear. You have done more than enough. It’s time for someone else to make a sacrifice.” He grinned at her, before leaning in to kiss her forehead. “I must go,” he said. “The Dragon awaits.” He pulled away from her, but let his hand linger in her hair for a moment longer, pressing the strands to his face and breathing in that sweet clover and nightshade, filling his lungs with her, before he broke away and heard her inhale.

 

“Martin, I love you!” she screamed at him.

 

He turned back to see her sobbing against a pillar, her blue eyes wide and iridescent, face smudged with soot and char and her hair disheveled and he was brought back to that time in Kvatch, when an angry little Breton, those same eyes on fire, told him to get his act together and to come with her to save the world. He gazed at her now, burning her image into his mind: her torn dress and the river tracks over her cheeks and he felt his throat tighten around half-chances and swallowed laughter. He hesitated, for a beat, for a breath, before he slipped the Amulet of Kings off of his neck and clutched it in his palm.

  
  
  


She watched him take the Amulet off and light the Dragonfires, and then stood in the middle of the room. She heard the snap before she saw the roof being pushed away, and Dagon’s form loomed over them. Martin shattered the Amulet and she was blinded by a flash of light, and when she could look again, a flaming dragon soared over the city and dove at the Daedra Lord. 

 

It seemed to go on forever, and Felicienne later would not exactly recall in detail what the battle entailed, but she saw the dragon finally sink its fangs into Dagon’s throat, and flung him back into Oblivion as the Daedra’s form evaporated like hoarfrost in the morning, and the dragon--Martin--landed not a few feet away from her, in the center of the temple.

 

With a last roar, he turned into stone.

 

The skies cleared, azure filling the space where vermillion had once been, and the soldiers and guards who had been cut off from the Temple District came running, Chancellor Ocato in tow.

 

“Where is Martin?” he asked Felicienne, who stared at the statue in front of her, biting her lip and holding her arms around herself. “What has happened?”

 

She turned to see the Altmer standing there, next to her, and her sight lingered on the statue. “He’s gone. He lit the Dragonfires and smashed the Amulet,” she mumbled, her voice tying around itself as she continued to stare at the dragon statue. “And he’s gone.”

 

Ocato frowned, reaching a hand out to her shoulder. “The joined blood of kings and gods. The divine power of Akatosh.” He sighed, squeezing her shoulder. “Then Martin truly is...But...now the Gates are sealed forever. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.” Felicienne’s breath hitched, and she hunched forward. “He died an emperor, and a hero to rival Tiber Septim,” he assured her. “I don’t know what happens now. But at least we’re around to worry about it.”

 

She nodded at the shade of his smile, unable to force anything else out past the brambles in her throat, her body wrung out as the air left her body, and Ocato began to grow distant in her field of vision as it narrowed, and strong hands grasped her shoulders from behind when she swayed.

  
  
  
  


When she lay in her room at the Tiber Septim, expenses fully paid as gratitude for helping to end a daedric invasion, according to Ocato, she curled in on herself, taking care to cradle her stomach, rubbing the imperceptible bump that was there, her chest feeling as though it would split down the middle and her breath came in shallow bursts and she tried to take in huge gulps of air, but the sensation of water kept rising and rising, until she submerged beneath the tide. When she sank, she sobbed into her damp pillow, her diaphragm attempting to burrow its way out of her through her throat.

 

Shivers burst over her skin from the back of her neck, and as she took in another draught of air, damp clover and petals invaded her, and she cried harder as she fought her stomach down, the chill seeping into her pores. 

 

* * *

 

She remained locked in her room for nearly two weeks, despite Baurus and Jauffre hounding her relentlessly after the fourth night with begging, pleading, and finally bargaining, before she missed the ceremony that not only celebrated the defeat of Dagon, but memorialized Martin and bestowed the title of Champion of Cyrodiil on her. When she finally emerged from her seclusion, it was only to the main room of the inn where she clung to the corners of the walls like a spectre as she grew increasingly distant, wandering around in her bare feet late at night, hardly speaking, before Jauffre decided it was time that they return to Cloud Ruler. 

 

At least, for the time being.

 

The ride back to County Bruma was silent, and Felicienne stared out at the horizon. 

  
  


Baurus kept shooting glances at her, but Jauffre just shook his head every time he went to open his mouth. When they finally arrived back at the entrance of Cloud Ruler, they stopped when they saw the remnants of Martin’s work for the portal to Paradise. 

 

“I’ll have someone clean this up,” Jauffre mumbled. 

 

Felicienne nodded, but grew misty anyway, and wiped at her eyes, her movements stiff as she turned away from the main group, her hair falling veiling her face when her arm fell back to her side. 

 

Baurus took her hand and she gave him a watery smile. 

  
  


As the weeks went on, the Blades drifted about the temple, aimless, and Felicienne had a near-permanent seat by the hearth where she and Martin spent so many nights conversing, sometimes working on a needlepoint project--which she insisted she hated when Baurus asked her about it--and sometimes only staring into the dancing orange flames. She only left to sleep and, on some rare occasions, to head into town for a number of hours before returning. One of the Blades, usually Caroline, would bring her something to eat on the days she didn’t leave at all. 

 

It was on one such occasion that Baurus found her and he approached her one day after dinner in the month of Midyear as she stared into the fireplace, her face smooth and relaxed, wearing a simple green linen dress, unlike her usual attire, her hands in her lap running along her stomach, and humming under her breath. She had been doing much better for the last two months, even appearing to put on a bit of weight at last. Despite her brief forays into town, he was surprised she hadn’t gone stir-crazy as she would have done some months ago. 

 

Baurus thought that Martin might be pleased that the others were watching out for the Breton as he would have done, then he frowned, the weight of a pendant in his pocket burning against his thigh; he had been meaning to give it to Felicienne for some time, but was unsure of how she would receive it. But, he decided, it was no use putting it off anymore and sat down across from her. 

 

The Breton turned her face towards him. “Oh,” she smiled, “hello Baurus. Can I do something for you?”

 

“Ah, no, not really. I just wanted to speak with you.”

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

“Yes, it’s nothing like that. I suppose I’ve just been worried. About you.”

 

She hummed and pouted. “I know," she sighed and glanced away. "I truly am sorry; I’ve been quite the burden to you all, and you've all been so kind to put up with me.”

 

“You aren't a burden at all. I think I’m just surprised to see you so content to stay in one place. You only ever really leave to go to Bruma.”

 

She laughed, her eyes wrinkling at the corners, but the expression smoothed as soon as it appeared. “You’re right,” she acknowledged. “And to tell you the truth, I do think it’s time I leave soon.”

 

“Leave?”

 

She nodded. “I can’t stay here forever. I’m not a Blade after all. I’m no one, really.”

 

“That is certainly not true,” Baurus argued. 

 

“In this context it is,” she told him. “It’s fine. I almost prefer it this way. I didn’t want any of this, if you remember. I just wanted--” she inhaled, razor-sharp, and he thought he saw her eyes glow, and she shook her head “--I just wanted.” She blinked and released a small amused scoff, but sent him a flicker of a grin, one corner of her mouth lifted as her hand rested on her stomach. “Maybe I’ll have that yet.”

 

They fell into silence, warm and cozy, the sound of their breathing and the stomping of boots the only sound to penetrate the foyer. The fire crackled in the hearth, and cast a warm glow over the occupants.

 

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she asked.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“That you still need a fire for this time of year in this part of Cyrodiil. I suppose it is high enough and close enough to Skyrim, but I still maintain you don’t really have snow in Cyrodiil. Not like Jehanna.”

 

“Of course we don’t,” he humored her. 

 

“You don’t,” she contended. “You have happy snow.”

 

Baurus shook his head and laughed, and she stuck her tongue out at him. He fixed her with a more pensive expression.“Where do you think you’ll go?” he inquired. 

 

She sighed, tugging the waist of her dress away from her a bit. “I’ve been neglecting some other business that I have, so I suppose I should go back to that. There’s a house in Bravil I’ve had my eye on,” she admitted. “And I heard recently that no one’s bought it yet. I think I’ll do that. I certainly have the funds saved up,” she laughed. 

 

“So you’re staying in Cyrodiil?”

 

She nodded. “I am. So you’re not quite free of me.”

 

“I’m glad.”

 

Felicienne’s face grew somber for a moment. “There’s just...too many memories here, in this temple, this county...I need to leave.”

 

“When?”

 

“Don’t be mad,” she started. He glared at her and she sighed. “Tomorrow.”

 

“Were you going to leave without a word?” he exclaimed.

 

“Not--not exactly.” She sniffled. “I don’t do goodbyes well, Baurus. I just--”

 

“I can’t even be angry,” he interjected. “You still going to write?” The Redguard’s throat bubbled around more words, and he pushed them down and just huffed and shook his head. 

 

She seemed to wilt, tension easing from her shoulders. “Of course I am. I can’t let my Cyrodilic lapse now, can I, with all the trouble I went through to learn it?”

 

“I’m glad I caught you then. I have something for you.”

 

“You do?”

 

“I should have given it to you right away, but, I guess I was worried about how you would react.”

 

She sat up straighter and sucked on her bottom lip. Her forehead creased as she crossed her arms in front of her before she asked,“What is it?”

 

Baurus dug into his pocket and fished out a necklace, wooden beads strung along the cord, and carved pendant in the shape of a dragon. She looked up at him, her eyes glassy. 

 

“I think he would have wanted you to have it.”

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

“I found it in his...effects. When I went through them. I know it--it isn’t much, but it seemed unfair for you to not have anything of his, given how close you two were.” He placed it in her hand, and her fingers closed around it.

 

“I--thank you, Baurus. This--you didn’t have to do this.”

 

“I know. But I wanted to.” He drew her hand between his, and held it there, squeezing. “You meant a great deal to him. I hope you know that.” Then he let her hand drop. 

 

She nodded and held the pendant to her chest.

 

* * *

 

 

The trip back to Cheydinhal was uneventful. Not surprising, really, since the threat of  Oblivion Gates was now gone and the Heartlands were as lush and verdant as ever. Magnus shone through the branches of trees and soaked into the forest floor, tender shoots of grass and buds perfuming the air as she crushed them under the small soles of her boots on her way into town. The city was bright, gleaming in the daylight, the cobblestone of the streets and sidewalks glittering beneath her while she moved towards the abandoned house along the eastern gate and slipped inside, it being far less musty than when she first arrived those months ago. She walked the winding path towards the glowing door bearing Sithis’ mark and pushed inside.

 

“Listener!” Arquen exclaimed. “You’re back, at last,” she admonished the younger woman. “We were...growing concerned with your absence.” Felicienne saw Arquen cast a look towards the entrance and watched the knot of her throat bob. “You understand,” she continued, “with everything that has happened.”

 

Felicienne nodded her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I meant to send word earlier, but I…” she inhaled only to let it out again in a rush, “I became distracted. I’m sorry.”

 

The high elf jerked her head but glanced away from the Breton. “I should let you settle in. There is some business to discuss. I wanted to let you know ahead of time, however, that we have increased our numbers here. We have a fair few new recruits,” she finished, a small smile playing on her lips.

 

Felicienne’s lips twitched up in response. “I’m glad,” she murmured. “Really, I mean it. It was too empty.” She let her gaze wander around the shrouded chamber, to the torches flickering in the dim light and the worn furniture and the spirals of dust glimmering against the backdrop of the sanctuary, and she could hear the dull chattering that drifted up from the hallway. She looked back at Arquen, raising a brow.

 

“As I said, we have new recruits,” the older reminded her. 

 

The Breton let her lips fully part, her teeth showing beneath rosy petals and a chuckle escaped her. She held a hand to her stomach, resting it there as it idly traced a path back and forth. She felt Arquen follow the motion with her eyes but remained silent and Felicienne did not acknowledge her perusal. The cool air licked across her face and rolled along the dark material of her clothing and she pulled the linen tighter around her and brought her hand up to touch the pendant around her throat, the smooth wood almost soft and warm against her, and her throat began to close. 

 

She had spent far too long in tombs. 

 

The girl then snapped her head back up to meet Arquen’s gaze again. “Did you…” she began until Arquen held her hand up and nodded. 

 

“I did. I left them in your office.”

 

Felicienne frowned and tilted her head to the side. “My office?”

 

“Ah, yes,” the elf stammered, and Felicienne’s scowl deepened. “Ocheeva’s old one. I thought you might like to be separated from the recruits. At least, for your own privacy.”

 

The girl snapped her mouth shut and sighed. “Of course,” she said after a few breaths. “Thank you.”

 

“I didn’t find much,” Arquen confessed. “Lucien was a terribly private man--”

 

“It’s fine, Arquen,” she cut in. “I wasn’t expecting much. Really. I just--I just think that--” she choked out, her vision becoming blurry, and she cradled her abdomen in her arms as her chest tightened against the blood hammering through her heart. “I just want to put them aside for--for when the time is right,” she forced and blinked back the hot salt water stinging her irises and stuffed the scream that boiled in her down to simmer in her entrails. She continued to breathe and wiped her face. “Forgive me,” she muttered. “I’ve had a trying--” she laughed “journey, and I think I could do with a bit of a lie-down.”

 

Arquen nodded and escorted the brunette to her new room and pointed to the writing desk. “Listener, there was something addressed to you--”

 

\--but Felicienne shook her head.

 

“It’s not important right now, Arquen,” she stated, glancing at the carved wooden box perched on the desk. The patterns hit her with a wave of longing as she took in the curves of the spirals etched onto the lovely surface. “I’ll look at it later.” She flopped down into the desk chair, her joints whimpering with relief as the pressure from standing was alleviated from them, and she motioned to another seat near her. “Please, sit, I have to discuss something with you.”

 

As the elf took her place near the girl, Felicienne worried the inside of her cheek.

 

“Is there anything you need?”

 

“I’m not staying here,” the Breton burst out. At Arquen’s affronted expression, Felicienne hurried to reassure her with her quick and high voice. “I’m not abandoning my responsibilities here. I’m really not.” She took in a deep breath and shook her head. “I’ll be staying in Bravil. Permanently. I’ve been looking around, and apparently there’s a home for sale and...well, I think I’ll purchase it. It might be better this way. I mean, for a lot of reasons--” she began to choke up again but shoved it down “--but I’ll be closer to the Night Mother, and I imagine I can correspond with you. You could make the trip down yourself if you feel written word isn’t secure enough,” the girl rushed, tapping her fingers along her knees and thighs. “I can’t stay here. You must understand,” she began, staring at Arquen, “I’m not asking. I’m informing you.”

 

Arquen sighed and nodded. “Of course, Listener. Perhaps it is as you say, and it would be better for you to be in such close proximity to the Night Mother.” She rubbed her face. “When do you plan on heading out, then?”

 

“Tomorrow morning. I sent a courier ahead of me with payment. I suspect I’ll be able to move in quite quickly, as light as I travel,” she smiled. “I’ll be going to Farragut first though, to--to see to some things.” Her lids slid shut and she settled into the chair. “Thank you,” she told the older woman. “Thank you for--for doing as I asked. I truly appreciate it.” Keeping her eyes closed, she murmured, “Do you think you could leave now? I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been a long day and I’m very tired.”

 

She heard the creak of the chair when Arquen removed herself from it and felt the breeze of the rustling of her robes caress her cheek and sighed when the snick of the door echoed in her private quarters. She left her seat and opened Ocheeva’s--her--cupboard and noted that Arquen had done quite the job of making the room Felicienne’s. Her fingers traced the dark robe she’d been given after finding--after becoming a Speaker, and then the Listener. She slid it off of the hook that held it in place and the girl walked over to the bed and lay upon it, her pendant anchoring her to the mattress and her face growing wet while she traced the path of moss on the stone above, breathing in the aroma of must and damp rock as she wrapped the black cloth around her, and let herself drift, let herself be submerged in woodsmoke and leather and the faint metallic scent she’d come to miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're here, so close to the end. These last few chapters have been really difficult for me to write and edit, and if I keep going over them they'll never get posted, so here's Chapter 24. I apologize if there are still mistakes and if the pacing of this chapter seems odd. It really does serve a purpose. I'm experimenting a bit with style. It picks up a bit again in the last "chapter" and I finally reveal a plot device I'd been planting the seeds for since this story was in single digit chapters; I'm really scared about that XD
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's left comments (here or on Tumblr)/kudos/or has even just read my little dumpster fire. It really is the best part of my day, and I'm really glad that there are people who are enjoying this story. Hopefully, I'll see you all again during the sequel "While Kicking and Biting" which will start being posted two weeks after "Fortune's Favorite" wraps. For more info about updates, go ahead and keep up with me on silencebrulant.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, sorry for long author's note.


	25. Now Life, in Truth, Begins (The Denouement)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: long chapter ahead. I think it came out to 20 pages in the document file.

**3E 434: 2nd of Sun’s Height**

 

Felicienne stood back from her bookcase as she got the last of her tomes aligned in just the way she liked them, her fingers skimming over the embossed leather, supple and cool, a pleasant change from the damp and warm air that permeated her modest Bravil home. Her chemise stuck to her skin, sweat making the material cling to her form, and she tugged it away from her and she smoothed down the front of her apron dress, the green material soft against her palms. She glanced over at the small lute in the corner of the room and huffed. She’d need to get it restrung soon. Not that it mattered, she thought, since she hadn’t played for over a year now and it would probably sound like a scamp getting caught in a loom. 

 

The girl sighed, her arms falling by her side and she rolled her shoulder back, tilting her head from side to side, and she turned to walk up the stairs to her bedroom. She walked to the far side of the room to crack open a window, and she leaned there for a moment, inhaling as she straightened and leaned against the wall, watching the townsfolk meander through the streets as Magnus set behind them, behind the Colovian Highlands, the sky bursting with violets and corals as stars began to twinkle into existence against the dark veil of Oblivion. She breathed in again, clover and spice and her tongue felt heavy and wine-numbed in her mouth, and she relaxed into the wall and brought her arms around herself, shivering when she felt honey-thick heat trickle down her back.

 

“You smell really good. Anyone ever tell you that?”

 

She let out a muffled shriek and spun around to see what, at first glance, appeared to be nearly eight feet of dremora spread out on her bed with his head propped up against the headboard, his arms crossed behind his head, and looking around her room. He brought his gaze back to her and grinned when she brought her arms to her chest. 

 

“Sorry,” he chuckled. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Not really, anyway.” He performed another cursory glance around the room and raised an eyebrow at her. “You know, you could probably afford a nicer place than this; being the head of your little band of cutthroats must have its perks. That place in Cheydinhal you were looking at was good. Way more comfortable.”

 

The Breton stared at the dremora, eyes wide and brows furrowed, mouth pinched and was silent for a few moments. He rolled his eyes and sat up a bit on her bed, his armor catching on her bedsheets, dragging them with his movement, and she winced. 

 

“One of us is very confused,” she finally said. “And I honestly can’t figure out which one of us it is.”

 

He let out a laugh that slithered down her back and settled into a warm glow in the pit of her abdomen. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. I’m sorry I haven’t visited for awhile.”

“Visited? For awhile?” she questioned, the warmth dissipating from her stomach as it wound in knots around itself while she bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, pressing her thighs together.

“I missed you.” He grinned at her and patted the space on the bed next to him.

 

With her head filled with cotton and smoke, she moved to sit down near him and his arm fell over her shoulders. The heat from his body burned into her skin and the taste of brandy lingered in her mouth. Through the fog she felt him lean down to nuzzle the junction between her jaw bone and neck, and the baby-fine hairs there twitched as he inhaled. She heard him groan and mutter something she couldn’t understand and his hand came back up behind her and he threaded his fingers in her hair. 

 

“You smell so good,” he growled, tugging on her hair, his hand in a fist. “I couldn’t place it before. I could smell the Isles all over you, and then I hear that Jyggalag is roaming the Waters of Oblivion. I knew then that it must have had something to do with you, my little Champion of Cyrodiil. Always getting into trouble,” he added, a strange lilt to his speech as he released her hair and he patted her on the top of her head. His other hand travelled down to her knee and trailed up the inside of her thigh. She clenched her knees together and he stopped his movement but didn’t relinquish his grip on her. She broke out in a sweat, the cool condensation dampening the back of her neck and he dragged his tongue over it before drawing the shell of her ear into his mouth and sucking. 

 

“How did you get in here? I didn’t summon you,” she inquired, trying to squirm away from him, trembling.

 

He laughed in response. “As if you could. Really. Enough with the cold shoulder,” he chastised, continued his hand’s movement until it rested on her hip, missing the juncture of her femur and pelvis. He grinned again, hearing her gasp and whimper, though she attempted to muffle the sound behind bitten lips and smothered breath. “You have been rather busy since then, but you couldn’t have forgotten about me. We had such a lovely night in Bruma.”

Ice flooded her stomach and she made to pull away only to be held in place by his now-iron grip. She felt her breath becoming short and the corners of her vision darkened, the shadows of the room deepening. And he kept petting her, coddling her. 

“Honestly I should have known then that you weren’t an ordinary human. Especially with Jyggalag roaming around, not insane and not Sheogorath.”

 

“What do you mean?” she managed and tried to laugh, the sound taking on a shrillness that grated on her own ears. 

 

“I think you know, heartling.”

 

“Stop calling me those things,” she snapped, before going pale and covering her mouth with the hand not held to her side by his bulk. He just chuckled and gently removed her hand from her face. 

 

Before she could register the movement, she found herself pinned beneath his body, the sharp pressure from his armor digging into her skin and she let out a soft cry. The pain evaporated and left scorching heat in its place that soaked into her flesh. He pressed his hips down against hers, grasped her wrists in one of his massive hands and held them above her head while the other skimmed up her side and rested on her cheek. Dimly, she registered his bare skin atop of her as he rolled his hips again, stopping short and pulling away, leaving inches between their bodies. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised and brought his free hand down to her stomach. 

 

He let out a laugh and rubbed her abdomen, the motion leaving trails of fire over her. “You  _ have  _ been busy,” he exclaimed.

 

Her face turned grey and she renewed her squirming underneath him. Her arms twitched as she tried to bring them to his chest to push him off, but his hand held fast, the bones in her wrists grinding against each other. The hand on her pelvis drifted over to her hip, then her leg, and lifted it off the bed and wrapped it around his hips. He shushed her, stroking her side, dragging his palm up and down from the top of her thigh to just under her breast.

 

“Hey now, I’m not here for  _ that _ ,” he chastised her, waiting for her to settle in his hold again.

 

“What  _ are _ you here for?” she asked, eyes shiny and mouth swollen from where her teeth worried it. His gaze flitted down to it before coming back to her eyes.

 

“Can’t I just stop by to say hi to my favorite not-quite-human?” He grinned at her, but relinquished his hold her wrists to bring his arm down by her head, propping himself up on his forearm and taking his weight off of her. He kept her thigh around him. “You need to relax every once in awhile. You’ve been no fun at all, no matter how much I tried to get you to lighten up.”

 

She saw that his armor had gone, leaving smooth, dark skin open for viewing. Familiar red markings decorated his sides and traveled down to where she knew they curled around his hip bones, despite being covered by soft leather breeches. The girl swallowed, bringing her gaze back up to his dark and crimson face looming over hers, black hair spilling from behind pointed ears and horns curled over the top of his head. She blushed after she saw his lips quirk again when her gaze lingered on him too long, and she turned her face away to stare at a point over his shoulder. She rested her hands on his biceps. 

 

He sighed and rolled off of her, holding his head with his hand and keeping the other on her stomach, stroking the slight swell that was there. 

 

“You aren’t showing that much,” he mused. “Not that I spend a lot of time with pregnant women,” he admitted, chuckling as he regarded her prone body and his eyes hovered where his palm rested. 

 

“My mother didn’t show much either,” she heard herself say, feeling a pinch behind her eyes. “At least, that’s what my father told me.” She brought her own palms to touch the top of his hand, letting its heat soak into the cool flesh. “I’m almost five months,” she said aloud, and then she closed her eyes and settled deeper into the bed. “You’re so hot,” she murmured. 

 

He hummed and brought her closer to him, her body limp and pliant now. “Am I?” he questioned, bringing his lips down to her forehead and trailed them down her temple, her cheek, her jawline, before he sealed them over her mouth. Her lips opened beneath his and he licked the inside of her mouth, running his tongue over her teeth and twining with her own slick appendage. He caught her moan in his throat and drank it down. 

 

He smiled against her and slid an arm underneath her body and flipped them over so that she lay on top of him. He sat up, forcing her to slide down into his lap and he wrapped his arms around her small frame. 

 

“So,” he started, looking down at her, “whose is it? Martin finally worked up the nerve to invite you to his bed?” He waggled his eyebrows, and then sighed, shaking his head. “You know, he was never that shy when he was still in my service. I remember this one time, in High Rock, there were these two mages--gorgeous girls--and a rather strapping apprentice, and Martin--”

 

“I beg you to stop telling this story,” she said, grimacing. 

 

“Really? It’s a lot of fun. Martin was quite limber--”

 

“It’s me,” she interrupted, nodding, “I’m the one who’s really confused. And no,” she stated before he could open his mouth again. “It isn’t Martin’s. It--it wasn’t like that. Between us.”

 

Her companion scoffed. “Not for lack of trying on his part, anyway.” At her frown, he let out a laugh. “Oh come on, I could practically feel his tension when you were brought up.”

 

“When were you even around?” she asked, looking down towards their laps.

A lazy look stole over the Daedra's jovial face, his eyes half-lidded and glittering. “Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.”

She pursed her lips and forced out, “Then  _ why _ were you even around?” through gritted teeth.

 

“Excuse me,” he scoffed, “you were going to destroy my very generous gift just so you could rescue Nirn from Dagon.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was trying to stop an apocalypse,” she huffed. “I can be so short-sighted sometimes.”

 

“So you had to use my Staff?” he whined.

 

She glared up at him and he smothered another laugh and shrugged. “I suppose you made up for it.” He watched her face glow crimson and smirked. “You were so cute,” he murmured into her hair, dragging out the ‘o.’ “So shy for someone so vicious. I could see why Martin was so taken with you.”

 

“It wasn’t like that.”

 

“Please,” he drawled. “You should have seen his reaction seeing the state of his room after we were done with it: the bed, the sheets...the blood.” His eyes slid shut and a lascivious smirk spread over his features. “I love virgins.” 

 

“You’re disgusting,” she mumbled, angling herself away, her face burning in the failing light. “In all fairness,” she continued, “I was sort of hoping that was a dream. At the time.” She swallowed and he followed the motion with his eyes before she shook her head. “But then it wasn’t.”

 

“So you dream about me?” he teased and pet her hair before his expression softened and he brought his palm back to her cheek, stroking, petting the soft flesh there. “You’ve been  _ very _ busy then, if it wasn’t Martin...”

 

Her eyes glimmered before she looked away, sniffling. He frowned but waited for her to say something. She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. Why are you asking anyway?” She blinked several times, but failed to contain a tear that rolled down her cheek, and she hurried to turn her face away again, her hair falling over her face.

 

Her companion’s black eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter. “Hey, don’t--don’t do that,” he said. “Stop it. I’m just out of the loop! Please stop doing that,” he pleaded as he held his hands up in front of him, his palms angled towards her and she burst into a bout of weeping.

 

“Oh I’m so sorry!,” she shrieked. “Am I making the _D_ __aedra_ _ uncomfortable?” she sobbed, glaring at him through splotchy cheeks and mussed hair. 

 

“Hey I get it, I do. I like mortals too,” he tried, wincing when she just cried harder, but her arms came back around him and buried her face in his neck. “You do this a lot?” he asked.

 

“Shut up,” she mumbled against his skin. “I’ve had a really bad year,” she sniffled. “Too many daedra. You can owe me a little bit, right?”

 

He chuckled, stroking her hair again. “I was going to say I thought we were all square with each other, but sure. Just no more of that crying. It brings the room down.”

 

“It’s my room,” she said, her voice still muffled, and then she started laughing, softly at first, but both the volume and shaking of her shoulders increased the longer she stayed in his lap. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, still fighting giggles. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“This,” she mumbled. “You being here. Why?”

 

He shrugged. “I was bored. Thought I’d drop in on my favorite champion, see what she was up to.” He trailed his hand back down her back to grip her hip and then slid under her. “Imagine my surprise seeing her here, living in--er--this,” he said, looking around the room. 

 

“It’s fine,” she insisted. “I like it.”

 

He snorted. “Sure. Your place in the Isles is much nicer,” he said. “I haven’t been there in years,” he mused. She stiffened again. “Relax,” he chastised. “I’m looking forward to it. Sheo and I go way back. I mean, there’s the whole Jyggalag thing, but other than that, we’ve had some pretty good times. Your Manics are a lot of fun.”

 

“I don’t even want to know,” she paused, her eyes on him as she pouted, “and they’re not mine.”

 

“Come on. It’s so boring here. Especially now. We’d have a much better time at your place. Or mine.”

 

He moved so quickly it knocked the wind out of her when she landed on her back, the daedra looming over her. She panted, trying to catch her breath, and he leaned down to nuzzle her jaw.

 

“It’s interesting,” he murmured. He pulled back a bit, grinning. “You’re all...weak now.” He regarded her, head tilted to the side and he sighed. “I always knew something would happen. Sheo’s always been...difficult...to say the least.” 

 

“I feel like this has less to do with me,” she stammered as she wriggled against him, unable to settle in place.

 

He hummed again, ignoring her, and leaned down to lick a stripe across her collarbone and up her jaw. “You could just come back with me now, you know. No point in staying here.”

 

“I can’t,” she exclaimed.

 

“Oh sure you can. It’ll be fun.” He caged her with his limbs and smiled down at her. “Come on, you know you want to,” he sang, and a frisson of fear ran down her body.

 

“I said no,” she stated, glaring up at him. 

 

His face fell and he flopped onto his back. “Fine,” he sulked. “Stay here. See if I care.”

 

She stared at him, her forehead creased and and lips parted, her teeth worrying the inside of her cheek. “Are you seriously pouting?” she ventured.

 

“Hey, I’m trying to offer you a way out of all of this,” he waved his arm, “and you are just so ungrateful. About this, about my Staff...”

 

“And I’m completely sure it’s merely out of the kindness of your heart and an entirely selfless act on your part,” she muttered. “But have you forgotten I’m not just concerned for myself?” Felicienne glanced up at the ceiling, pressing the back of her head against the pillows. She felt his gaze on her, that trickle running up and down her spine leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “I just want to...I just want to settle down,” she confessed. “I bought this house, for,” her eyes flicked towards her stomach, “you know. I mean, this is all I want.”

 

“This?” he scoffed. She bristled next to him and he pressed on. “Living in a rundown shack in a boggy city in Cyrodiil? Gonna snag a mortal and have a nice little chapel wedding, too? Pop out a couple more brats? Take up needlepoint?”

 

She twisted her face towards the wall, away from him, and sniffled. “You don’t have to be nasty about it,” she muttered. “And I already know needlepoint.” She sighed and rolled her body to follow her gaze, her shoulder pressing underneath her and pinpricks dancing up and down her back. “I like this,” she told him. “Just--just the quiet.” 

 

She heard a huff behind her and a groan. “Have it your way.” The rustle of fabric permeated the room and she felt him shift behind her before he said, “You can’t stop it though, you know.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“You know. You’ve already crossed that bridge. It’s only a matter of time. Yeah, this is...quaint, but you need the Isles.” He pulled her to him and kissed her again, ravaging her mouth, and she let him. He broke their contact and smirked. “I can wait.” And he faded away in a pop of rose scented smoke that rolled over her bed and skin, and she shivered, holding her blouse around her, a deep frown etched onto her face as she stared at the wall.

 

No more daedra, she thought as she ran her fingers along the clothed skin of her stomach, feeling the minute movements that lay beneath. She recalled her mother once telling her that feeling Felicienne move within herself had been akin to the sensation of butterflies fluttering their wings, and she swallowed them down as they tried to escape. Her arm cradled the little swell there and she hummed, her lids falling shut under the weight of her lashes. She breathed in the thick air of the room, all floral and spice, and the band around her lungs tightened for a moment before dissolving.

 

* * *

 

**3E434: 20th of Evening Star**

 

The stone walls of the Chapel of Mara loomed around Felicienne as she lay panting on one of the sick beds that the residents had set up during the Oblivion Crisis. Pain lanced through her body, causing her stomach to churn and sweat to drip down her flushed cheeks and forehead, gathering at the nape of her neck. Things kept going in and out of focus, and she tried to slump back against the cot.

 

“You need to push, dear,” an Argonian woman told her. She was crouched in front of the Breton’s splayed thighs as her assistant, another Argonian, held the pregnant woman from behind, cradling her skinny form against him.

 

“I am,” the girl cried, clenching her fists and screaming as another jolt of agony shot through her. “Fuck, I hate him,” she shouted to the healer’s assistant. He nodded and rubbed a wet cloth over her forehead. “I wish I could kill him myself,” Felicienne sobbed.

 

“I know, my dear,” the older woman soothed. “But that can wait until later. Right now you need to keep pushing.”

 

She thought she was going to die; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this. If Lucien was still around she’d flay him alive. She hoped he was suffering in the Void, the bastard. 

 

She felt something tear, and went cold, pins and needles tingled across her lips and her jaw trembled. She felt the blood drain from her face, leaving pale and clammy flesh behind, and her vision narrowed while her head lolled to the side and back. 

 

“For the love of Mara,” she heard in front of her. “Beem-Kiurz, set her down and get Ardaline. Tell her it’s an emergency.”

 

She felt herself be lowered and she slurred, “Who the fuck is Ardaline?”

 

“Don’t you worry about that. Keep talking to me.”

 

She giggled, breathy and light. “Are you sure? What do you want me to talk about?”

 

“Why don’t you tell me about your baby’s father.”

 

“He’s a son of a bitch and I hate him,” she gasped. “He’s horrible.” She sniffed and whimpered “I miss him. I miss him so much.”

 

“What about the baby’s name? Do you have one picked out?”

 

“No, I haven’t thought about it,” she cried.

 

“That’s quite alright; you’ll know soon enough. Keep pushing. Do you want a boy or a girl?”

 

“A boy,” she sobbed through numb lips. “I want a boy to look like him. I hope he has his eyes.”

 

“I’m sure he will.”

 

Felicienne began to shiver, her goosed flesh stinging in the chilly temple. “I’m cold,” she told the woman. “Can I get a blanket?”

 

“Of course,” the healer soothed. “Is there anyone we can send word to? The baby’s father? Any family?”

 

Felicienne issued another cry and pressed her face to the pillow beneath her. “No, they’re--they’re gone.” She panted as another sharp pain raced up her spine and the corners of the room appeared darker, black spots swimming in her vision. “Send a letter to Baurus. In the Imperial City, I think. Or Bruma,” she mumbled. “He’s a Blade. Tell him I’m sorry to bother him...” Her lashes weighed her lids down, and she strained to keep her eyes on the Argonian. “I’m really tired,” she whinged to the midwife.

 

“Don’t fall asleep. Listen to me, do not fall asleep. You have to hold on for a little bit longer.” A rough shake jarred Felicienne’s head and she moaned, bringing her arm up to push the offending hand away, but fell short. Everything drifted away, even the pain felt as if it were happening to someone else, and she watched how her head kept rolling backward against the cheap pillow cushions and the other woman’s more insistent pushing. “For the love of sweet Mara,” she heard. “Girl, you need to--”

 

And she slipped under.

  
  
  
  


“Oh good, you’re finally awake,” an Altmer woman came into her view. “You were out for three days. You lost a lot of blood, sweetie. Marz came and got me last night. I’m Ardaline, by the way. I made you a salve to staunch the bleeding, and something for the pain.”

 

“You’re really pretty. You glow,” Felicienne murmured, snuggling deeper into her own bed. “Like your skin is made of lunamoth wings. I like your hair.” She babbled as she reached out to touch the blonde strands. 

 

“I must have given you a little too much,” the woman chuckled. “What do you remember?”

 

Felicienne frowned and cleared her throat, but when she attempted to sit up Ardaline, with gentle hands--pushed her back towards the mattress and tucked the covers around her. “I was in the chapel,” she said, slowly, and nodded. “And then--”

 

Felicienne brought her hands to her stomach. “My baby?”

 

“He’s fine. You gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Marz will bring him in shortly. She wanted to wait until you were awake. In fact, I’ll go get her now.”

 

“How did I get here?” she asked, stopping the Altmer. 

 

“Marz thought you might be more comfortable in your own home. I agreed, but we waited until we were sure the infection was gone. You’ve only been here for about…” Ardaline glanced out of the window at the rising moon system, “seven hours, I suppose.” She placed a hand back on the girl’s shoulder. “I’m going to go get Marz now. Just get some more rest.”

 

Felicienne nodded and closed her eyes.  
  
  


 

 

 

She became aware of a hand on her shoulder, cool and rough, and her eyes fluttered again to see Marz holding a little bundle against her chest. 

 

“You gave us quite the scare.”

 

“What happened?” the Breton asked, sitting up, but collapsing against the headboard when the room tilted. The Argonian helped to steady her and sat down beside the girl. 

 

“You started bleeding and we couldn’t get it to stop; we suspected you might have had a latent infection. Turns out you had a case of Black-Heart Blight. Understandable, given the past year or so,” the woman told her, glancing at her. 

 

“I know,” Felicienne whispered, cowed, and her voice grew thick. “I should see a healer more often.” 

 

Marz nodded but didn’t say anything else about the topic, swaying the bundle back and forth in her arms. “Would you like to see your son?” she asked, after a moment. “There’s no risk now. We took care of it, and he’s perfectly healthy.”

 

Felicienne nodded, and when he was placed in her arms she could finally take a good look at him, and he blinked back at her. She decided he was beautiful: he’d gotten Lucien’s skin tone and brow, and a head full of thick, dark hair. She started sniffling again, pulling the infant closer to her, breathing in the scent of sunlight and earth.

 

Gazing at the newborn, his smooth cheeks and button nose and blue eyes, she felt her heart beat in her throat and she ran two fingers over his forehead. She almost laughed thinking about his father and how they made this tiny thing. 

 

Soft and mortal. 

 

She wondered how Lucien might have reacted had he known and she shivered. 

 

“I am very lucky, aren’t I?” she asked the healer, still staring at her son.

 

“I would say so, yes. I imagine the both of you have been through quite a bit.”

 

Felicienne nodded and she pressed a kiss to his forehead, where soft hair met skin. “I think he’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

 

“Most mothers feel that way,” Marz said, patting the Breton’s hand. “I hate to ask,” she began, “but do you have a name for the child? So I can get the process of adding him to the county census. It has been a few days. Normally, this would be taken care of by the father at least, but…”

 

“No need to explain,” she smiled, pale and drawn, “I understand.” She turned back to the little thing in her arms. “I’ve always liked Faustus,” she mused. “Do you think that’s a nice name?”

 

“It’s a very handsome name, my dear.”

 

“I like it,” she said. “Faustus,” she told the bundle. She leaned in close to him, her mouth against his ear. “I went through a lot, you know, and I managed to keep you safe, so maybe I won't be as rubbish at this as I thought,” she whispered. She smiled, lips pressed to his cheek. “You’re my most favorite little thing in the whole of Nirn.”

 

* * *

 

 

A week later found Baurus in her little Bravil home, disheveled and haggard, and apoplectic. 

 

“How could you not tell anyone you were pregnant?” the infuriated Redguard hissed at her, his eyes darting between Felicienne and the little bundle she held as they were both surrounded by bed linens and pillows. She winced and shrugged and opened her mouth to speak, but he held a hand up in front of him, cutting her off. “No, I’m going to speak now, and you’re going to listen to me,” he said, keeping his voice low and he continued to look down at her seated form. “You were traipsing all over Cyrodiil, all over  _ Oblivion _ , while you were with child! And then I get a letter from the Temple of Mara, from a midwife, of all people, that I was being notified as  _ next of kin _ in case something happened after--after…” he trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose, before dropping his hand as he resisted the urge to strangle the young woman sitting in front of him. “Do you have any idea what sort of danger you put yourself in? Or your son? What were you thinking?”

 

He saw her blink and cradle her infant closer to her, and she mumbled, “I don’t know.”

 

“ _ You don’t know? _ ”

 

“Baurus,” she pleaded, “who else was going to do it?”

 

“I don’t know if it has escaped your notice, but a fair few of us knew how to close those Gates,” he snapped.

 

“I didn’t want to risk anyone else…”

 

“By the Nine, you ridiculous woman, listen to yourself! Risk anyone else? So eager to run headlong into danger then? Did you even think about your child?”

 

“Of course I did,” she said, her voice splintering and tears finally spilling over. “I was careful, I swear. I’m good at staying out of sight--”

 

“You were still in Oblivion! And there at the end--gods did Martin know?”

 

She reeled back, and he watched the color rush out of her cheeks, her skin ashen, and she shook her head. Her mouth quivered and he heard her sharp inhalation. “He--it’s not...he’s not the father,” she admitted, flinching.

 

Baurus frowned and shook his head. His jaw worked, opening his mouth several times before he could utter a meager, “What?” And she burst into a fresh round of sobs.

 

“I would have told him,” she insisted. “I would have told him everything. I didn’t have time! I didn’t have time, Baurus. I wouldn’t have--I wouldn’t have tried to--to trick him into anything--”

 

“Hush now,” he said, his tone far more gentle than it had been before as he took a seat on the bed next to her. “I didn’t think that you would.”

 

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much,” she sniffled. “I hate it.”

 

“You’re emotional right now. It’s--er--it’s normal, I’m told. Especially given everything that’s happened in the last year. You should--you should have said something,” he told her. “You can’t keep things like that secret, Felicienne.” He rubbed his face and sighed. “What if you’d died? Then what? Or what if you had died in childbirth?” He groaned and placed his elbows on his knees, with his face in his palms. “I don’t think you understand how much you mean to us. To me. We’ve been through a war together, Felicienne. You’ve saved my life. A couple times. I’ve been with you in this since the beginning, since Uriel’s assassination. Don't you think I would have been pissed as all Oblivion if you went and died without telling me anything? After everything? After Martin?”

 

He heard her sniff, and her voice floated over, subdued, barely audible. “I guess I didn’t think about that.”

 

He snorted and lifted his head up to look at her again. “Apparently. It doesn’t matter now. I really am glad you’re alright.”

 

Things were quiet for a moment, the cool breeze winding its way through her home from the open windows and rustled the light tapestries that hung along the wall the only sound within the room, and the soft sounds of Faustus cooing and fussing. He saw her flush and squirm.

 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

 

Her face burned brighter and she glanced up at him, worrying her bottom lip before she spoke. “He’s--er--he’s hungry, I think. I need to feed him,” she told him, her complexion completely overtaken by red. 

 

“Alright,” he said, brow furrowing when he saw her shifting more and looking off to the side. He began to ask what was wrong before he laughed. “I’m sorry,” he chuckled at her affronted look. “I’m the oldest of six. I’ve seen most of it back home. I’ll turn around if it makes you more comfortable,” he said as he pivoted his body to face the wall opposite her bed. He heard the slip of cloth against cloth.

 

“I just--you know--I’m not...I’m not good at this,” the Breton told him. 

 

“You survived Oblivion; being a parent cannot be that much harder,” he teased. He heard her give a sharp bark of laughter before she quieted. He turned back to her and watched her holding her son, a cloth draped over her shoulder--for her modesty, he imagined--and saw her smile down at the baby before she worried the inside of her cheek.

 

“Baurus, I know this might be a lot to ask, but could you promise me something?” she asked, still looking at the newborn, a frown pulling on her face.

 

“Yes, you can ask me anything.”

 

“If--if something happens. To me, I mean. If something happens, could you please--could you look out for him? For Faustus?” She glanced back up to Baurus with her big eyes and earnest face and continued. “I have some things set up for him. He won’t hurt for money, and the house will be his, obviously, but--he’ll need someone to look out for his best interests. Someone who loves him. Please?”

 

His face melted and he scooted over to her to throw an arm over her shoulder, carefully, and hugged her to him. “You didn’t need to ask me that. I would have done it anyway. But I won’t need to because nothing is going to happen to you. The Crisis is over and we won. Everything is as it should be.” 

 

She gave him a wan smile and leaned back against the bed again, still propped up with Faustus in her arms. “Keep talking to me,” she murmured. “I can’t fall asleep like this.”

 

He chuckled. “Alright. Let’s see, I should get you caught up with everyone else. Jauffre’s gone back to the priory outside of Chorrol.” She made a small sound of encouragement, and he continued to tell her of all of the things that had transpired with him and the Imperial City. "I almost forgot!" he exclaimed. "They build a statue in your honor. Up in Bruma," he laughed.

 

“Oh gods, are you serious?” she muttered, her eyes still shut.

 

“Very,” he said, a grin stretching across his face. “It’s quite flattering, really. The countess wanted to make sure they captured you in all your glory. It’s rather impressive.”

 

“It’s embarrassing.”

 

His laughter rang in the house, and when both she and Faustus fell asleep, he placed the infant in his crib and covered Felicienne, before shutting the windows and going downstairs to the living room. He didn’t want to leave while she slept.

 

Perhaps she wouldn’t mind if he stayed a few days.

  
  


* * *

 

 

**4E 07 1st of Sun’s Dawn**

 

Felicienne stood on the coast of the Niben Bay, gazing out across the water. She sighed, seeing the clouds form in the distance, dark and thick, and they would likely be in Bravil by nightfall. She pulled her shawl around her; time in Cyrodiil had dampened her resistance to the cold, and she gave a rueful smile to the bank she stood on. She heard the splash of little footfalls hitting the lapping water and glanced over to her right, to see a little boy, with curling black hair and azure eyes and golden skin, digging through clams.

 

“Faustus,” she chided, “be careful. You could slip.”

 

“I’m trying to find a pearl, Mama,” he called back.

 

“A pearl?” she asked. “Why?”

 

“Heart’s Day is coming up,” he said. “I want to get you a present.”

 

She smiled. “Come here,” she told him, holding her arms out, and he clambered into them. “First, you have two weeks before then. Second, you don’t need to get me anything. I already have you,” she cooed, kissing a little scar on his forehead before rubbing her thumb over it, frowning. 

 

“Mama,” he ducked, blushing. 

 

“I know, I know, you’re getting too big for that,” she teased. Then, she sat down, right on the shore, unmindful of the dirt and mud, pulling the boy down with her to rest in her lap. “I need to talk to you about something, dear heart.”

 

He stopped struggling and laughing, and looked at her, and she felt a pang go through her and sting her eyes and throat. 

 

“Mama?” he asked.

 

“It’s nothing,” she assured him, gulping down the vice around her larynx. “You know I love you, fiercely. More than anything?”

 

“Mama...I know that,” he groused as his face heated and he began to play with a lock of her hair, watching the way the silvery strands stood out against the otherwise inky veil. 

 

She laughed. “Good, I’m glad.” Her face then furrowed, and she cast her eyes away from him. “You know that I won’t always be around, and I want to make sure you’re safe. Taken care of. Our home will always be yours,” she told him, “whether I’m here or not. Uncle Baurus would make sure of that. But keep this,” she dug through the folds of her skirt to hand him a key, “with you at all times. No matter what. And when you’re old enough, you need to go to County Cheydinhal, to the fort east of the city.”

 

His eyes were wide and he nodded.

 

“Good boy.”

 

“What’s in there?”

 

“You’ll see when you need to,” she said. “But everything in there is yours.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It--it belonged to your father.” She closed her eyes and held the boy tighter, and he felt her heart beating against his cheek. 

 

He didn’t ask anymore questions about it. But he tilted his face up and pressed a kiss to her cheek, frowning when she started to cry. 

 

“I wish I could make you stop crying, Mama," the boy confessed, still holding onto the lock of hair.

 

“Don’t you worry about it, dear heart. I’ll get it taken care of.” And she smiled and him before turning her gaze back out the to Niben Bay, and the gathering storm clouds. “We need to get inside. It’ll start raining soon.”

 

“But I like the rain.”

 

She laughed. “You know what? So do I.”

 

* * *

 

 

She stopped at Silver Home on the Water after she made sure Faustus was settled in their home and she shook off the rainwater that clung to her cloak before she stepped inside. Droplets decorated her hair and she brushed it down with her hands before taking a seat at the bar, ordering a glass of Surilie Brothers wine. She took a small sip, feeling the tart flavor burst over her tongue and warmth spread from her throat into her stomach, heating her abdomen, and the low murmur of the other patrons’ conversations soothing her nerves and filling her ears. It wasn’t long before she felt someone sit down next to her and she glanced out of the corner of her eye to spy who it was, but didn’t recognize him from around town. Breton--it seemed--dark hair and eyes, pleasing brow and cheekbones, and magicka crackling around him. Though a cursory sweep of the rest of the room showed no one else appeared to notice. She heard him order a glass of brandy and felt her lips quirk up in a half-grin as she took in a deep inhale and she raised an eyebrow. She kept her gaze ahead of her and felt him turn. She glanced over at him and he winked at her.

 

“Nice costume,” she told him and he grinned at her.

 

“Think so? I’m pretty fond of it,” he preened, and angled his body completely towards her and leaned against the bar surface.

 

She rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. “Yes, yes,” she said, “you’re quite winsome.” The Breton set her glass down and regarded him, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything; you don’t need me to feed your ego.” She frowned. “What are you doing here anyway? Can you not cause trouble where I live?”

 

He looked affronted. “What, I can’t visit you?”

 

Felicienne gave him a baleful glance. “That’s normally reserved for you popping in, unannounced, at my house.”

 

He winced. “Yes, well, my ears are still ringing from the last time I did that.”

 

“My son was upstairs.”

 

“He can’t visit with Uncle Sanguine?”

 

 “Don’t call yourself that. "She grimaced. "And, Mara no. He’s barely seven years old, and I don’t know if this has escaped your notice but I’m trying to keep him  _ away _ from daedra. I’m not exactly looking to invite them into our home.”

 

“I know," he muttered. "Chapel every week, blah blah. You’re not much fun these days,” he complained.

 

Her eyebrows shot up and her eyes grew wide. “When have I ever been fun?” she asked, ignoring his leer, then looked away from him and wrung her hands in her lap. “I’m just trying to give him some normality.”

 

“So it’s started then,” he stated. A smirk bloomed over his features as his eyes gleamed while he gazed at her.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she simpered. 

 

She half-expected him to push, to pry, but he seemed content to let the subject drop. He reached over a ran his fingers through her hair and she jumped in her seat at the first soft touch. He held a lock in his hand, a silver streak, and laughed. She snatched it from his fingers and arranged it under her nearly black strands and bringing them over her shoulder, away from him. 

 

“Don’t say anything,” she snapped.

 

“You look the same as when I met you,” he mentioned, his eyes raking over her before bringing his glass back to his mouth. 

 

“Yeah, people are starting to notice that, too. There’ve already been a couple rumors that I might be a vampire.”

 

He snorted into his brandy. “You know,” he started, “Mad Pelagius Day is tomorrow.”

 

She grimaced. “Yeah, so?” she mumbled.

 

“It going to be a loud day for you.”

 

“They’ve all been loud days,” she muttered into her wine. She caught his raised eyebrow and glared at him. She swallowed and stared at the woodgrain of the countertop. “I love him. I don’t want to leave.” She glanced back to him. “I can’t stay here though.”

 

He scoffed at her. “You can do whatever you want, you know. You’re done with the whole mortal coil. Don’t know why you stuck around this long. Sure, mortals are cute. Sometimes.” He winked at her and she flushed. 

 

“I don’t know. My son maybe?” she snapped. 

 

He hummed and threw and arm around her shoulder. “Well, when you decide what you’re doing, look me up. My offer’s still on the table. You’d like Misty Grove.”

 

“Whatever,” she said, but her lips twitched and she shrugged his arm off of her. She sent him a soft smile and gaze out of the corner of her eye, her face warm and glowing, and let out a soft giggle. “Hey,” she said, and his brow quirked up and she shook her head. “Thanks for visiting me. 

 

* * *

 

 

Later, she lay in the dark of her home, the cool breeze winding through the rooms carrying notes of nightshade and rose, a warmth flooding her and settling in her chest, dispelling the tension there, and the flutter of butterfly wings danced along her flesh as she watched the rise of Masser and Secunda through her window, the light of the full moons washing out the glittering stars that twinkled in the distance and filled her room. The walls splintered and cracked, and she felt herself falling into honeycomb and petals, and she landed back in her bed, still staring at the moonrise and sighed. She rose and made her way to her son’s tiny room and his tiny bed, and spooned behind his tiny form, kissing the top of his head and murmuring to him, breathing in the scent of summer and grass before she succumbed to the weight of her eyelids and drifted away, Faustus’ warmth cradled against her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last chapter (not counting the one-shot epilogue that'll be attached to this story) of "Fortune's Favorite." As always, please pardon any mistakes I might have made; I try to make sure I go over everything several times, but...sometimes I miss things. I then I want to die when I reread parts and find errors. 
> 
> Even though there are an epilogue and sequel, I want to give a BIG THANK YOU to everyone who's supported this project of mine. It means so much to me, and I hope I haven't let anyone down with the quality of my work or anything like that. Your comments, kudos, views etc. have all helped me get through this project and kept me inspired to work on the sequel (and subsequent works I have in mind). I was scared posting this, because obviously, there's a plot twist I wasn't sure I alluded to enough after Chapter Eight, so I guess we'll see. I finally just bit the bullet XD


	26. Fortune Now Has Kept her Promise (A Faustus Tale)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it: the winding-down, a happily-ever-after, and the lesson that sometimes we have to learn that we'll never know our parents completely, that the fact that we forge ahead in our lives is what matters. Faustus discovers the hidden cache Felicienne placed aside for him in Fort Farragut that leads to some uncomfortable revelations about his parentage, and he is exposed to a side of both of his parents he never knew.

**Sun’s Dawn, 4E 18: The Imperial City**

 

Baurus smiled when he saw the dark-haired youth clamor out of the carriage and run up to him, hair bound at the nape of his neck and golden skin flushed with cold or excitement.

 

“Uncle Baurus!” he shouted and he grabbed the older man’s arm, pulling him in for a hug.

 

The Redguard chuckled. “Careful now; I’m an old man. You can’t be jostling me around like this for much longer.”

 

The young man--eighteen now, and by all appearances an Imperial despite his mother’s Bretonic bloodline--just laughed and ran his hand over his face. Baurus stepped back, holding the adolescent by his shoulders, and looked at him. When the light hit the boy’s face a certain way, as it did now in the setting sun, he was taken aback by how very much like Felicienne he looked. The uneven smile, the scrunch of his nose and quirk of his brow. He had, for a time, wondered who the boy’s father was, and entertained the notion that he must have been Martin’s, though Felicienne had adamantly denied this, and surely she would not have if only to inform the Blades that they look after the boy more carefully. It would have little served her to lie about his parentage, and Baurus had to admit now that the young man standing before him held none of Martin in him, in neither his face nor his mannerisms.

 

That didn’t stop the rumors, however. He didn’t think anything ever would.

 

“What brings you to the Imperial City, Faustus?” the former Blade asked. “You were vague in your letter,” he stated, holding the boy out at an arm’s length now, “I figured it must be important.”

 

Faustus flushed and focused on the ground before him. “I--I suppose it is,” he stammered, kicking the dirt with the toe of his boot. “It’s about that time,” he started, then cleared his throat, “I mean, Heart’s Day is coming up and it’s been ten years since--since…”

 

Baurus clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder again. He had looked for years for Felicienne, after he’d received word that the Champion of Cyrodiil had gone missing, but nothing had ever turned up. There had been no trace, no hint as to where she might have gone. After five years, he’d given up and turned his focus to Faustus, whom the Hero of Kvatch provided well for in her disappearance. Faustus shook his head.

 

“That’s--that’s not why I’m here. Mama--Mother--she gave me this, before she left,” he said and held out his hand, a slim key resting in his palm.

 

Baurus plucked it out of his hand and gazed at it. “Do you know what this is to?”

 

Faustus shrugged. “She said it went to an old fort east of Cheydinhal. That when I was old enough, I should go there. That it belonged to me.”

 

“East of Cheydinhal?” Baurus mused, rubbing his chin. “That’s Farragut, I believe. That fort’s been abandoned for decades. There shouldn’t be anything there.” He fixed the young Imperial with a look. “Why do you want to go there now?”

 

Faustus exhaled. “She said it belonged to my father, and I just...I just want to know about him.”

 

The Redguard frowned. “You’ve never expressed much of an interest before. What’s changed?”

 

He ran his hand through his long hair and slumped forward. “I just do,” he muttered. “I mean, I barely even know anything about Mama, and nothing about my father. I don’t have anything to tell people about my family. Mother told me some things, about High Rock, but...I guess it’s been grating on me,” he confessed. “How am I supposed to have my own family, when I have so many questions about mine?”

 

The former Blade raised his eyebrows. “Your own family?” he inquired.

 

The boy flushed under his gaze and ducked down, scratching the back of his head. “There’s--there’s a woman, alright?,” he stammered. “Back home, in Bravil., and...I want to marry her. Her name is Elpis,” he stammered. “She’s...wonderful,” he said, a smile curving his lips before it slid off and he sighed, “but I-I can’t--” he huffed before he set his jaw and scowled at the cobblestone street, “I just have to know this.”

 

“So why are you here?”

 

At this, the boy’s face colored once more. He rubbed his neck and grinned at Baurus. “Maybe I was hoping you would come with me?”

 

The older man tilted his head to the side, frowning. “Why? Not that I wouldn’t, but why would you want me to go with you?”

 

“You just--you knew mother the most. I thought--I guess I thought that--”

 

Baurus touched the boy’s shoulder and bent to look him in the eye.“I would be happy to go with you. You don’t owe me an explanation. I was just curious. You’ve just never mentioned this before.”

 

Faustus nodded, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 

Baurus laughed. “Besides, I need to keep an eye on you if nothing else,” the Redguard chuckled, shaking his head and bringing his arm around the Imperial’s shoulders. “So,” he continued, “tell me about this young lady of yours.”

 

* * *

 

 

The road to Cheydinhal from the Imperial City remained quiet and smooth, something that often failed to sit well with Baurus. Faustus joked that after everything Baurus should be glad for some peace and tranquility. The former Blade muttered something about unrest and false senses of security, but Faustus laughed and told him he worried too much. Besides, between the two of them, bandits and highwaymen shouldn’t give them much of an issue.

 

Baurus cast a sidelong glance at the youth and groaned under his breath. He did possess a strange aptitude for magic. He’d witnessed, during the boy’s childhood, his ability to do potent, if accidental, destruction spells, and Felicienne had more than once complained he’d set something on fire. Despite his natural inclination, the kid decided not to try to enter the Arcane University.

 

He wondered if that had been Felicienne’s intention. She’d kept him rather sheltered while she had been around.

 

The boy was leaning out of the cart, face tilted towards Magnus and his lids shut. He retained the softness of adolescence still and Baurus gazed down at his own battle-worn hands with cracks creeping along the rough palms and calloused fingers, spidering along the surface. The wind ruffled the inky locks the boy sported and a small smile played along his features.

 

The boy wanted to start a family. Wanted to settle down in Bravil and marry in the chapel and raise one or two children with his lady-love.

 

He wondered what Felicienne would have thought of that, and he shook his head.

 

The mildness of the breeze combined with the swaying of the cart lulled Baurus into a mellow state, the sunlight warming his muscles and he settled deeper into his seat. Faustus looked back over to the older man a smiled.

 

“How do you think my mother would feel about this?” Faustus asked, still halfway over the edge of the cart.

 

Baurus let himself smile. “I think she would like anything that made you happy.”

 

They fell silent, and Faustus turned away again, watching the trees pass them by and followed their shadows with his gaze. He breathed in the fragrant air of Cheydinhal county: the tender green shoots that began to burst through the forest floor and the decomposition of the leaves that were strewn about. He inhaled again, tasting damp earth on his tongue.

 

He tasted rain.

 

“I know I was young when it happened, but I never thanked you. For looking for Mama. You didn’t have to, and I know everyone else gave up.”

 

“Your mother was a dear friend of mine.”

 

“I know,” Faustus said, biting his lip. “I need to tell you something.”

 

Baurus raised an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“I knew she was going to leave.”

 

The Redguard exhaled through his nostrils. “I know it’s easy to see that now, but you were all but seven years old--”

 

“No, not like that.” The Imperial slumped forward, huffing and leaning on the side, arms crossed under his head. “Sometimes I just know things. I knew she was leaving. When she gave me that key, when I touched it...I knew. And I just thought--” he stopped, his face glowing and he continued to gaze at the passing trees, “--never mind; it’s stupid.”

 

“What do you think is stupid?”

 

Faustus rolled his eyes and straightened. “I suppose I thought, when I was younger, that she’d be wherever this was, that I was supposed to find her.” He laughed. “I know I won’t now,” he rushed, “I gave up on that idea a long time ago. I don’t know why I brought this up. I’m sorry.”

 

Baurus said nothing, but let himself look at the boy again. He placed his hand on Faustus’ thin shoulder, the bones creating a knobby surface even under the Imperial’s riding clothes and cloak.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s so quiet,” Faustus breathed when he and Baurus came to stand in the middle of the atrium. The only noise was the soft whistle of a passing breeze through musty halls. “That’s--that shouldn’t be the case. Something must have moved in here. By now. Right?” he asked his companion. Baurus nodded, turning himself around, taking in their surroundings.

 

Faustus worried his lower lip and the inside of his cheek. He felt perspiration beading on his brow and the back of his neck and looked down two of the corridors across from him and his friend. He began to walk towards the one on the left wall, not checking to see if Baurus was behind him.

 

“What are we even looking for?” Baurus asked, following the boy, eyes scanning the floor and walls.

 

“I--er--I don’t really know. I imagine I’ll know it when I see it?”

 

Baurus brought his thumb and forefinger up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose between them. “Of course you will,” he muttered.

 

“Well, I’m sorry, she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information to a seven year old, now was she?” Faustus rolled his eyes while he continued down the drab hall, running his fingers along the wall and against the soft moss that clung to the stone. “There aren’t even any rats,” he murmured. His skin buzzed in the thick air that hung on his tongue on every inhale and he swallowed it down, shrugging off the tingle at the base of his skull.

 

“Are you alright?” the Redguard asked.

 

Faustus shook his head and laughed. “I am, yes. Just--something’s been here. Or is still here. I don’t know.”

 

He saw his uncle frown. “How do you know?”

 

“I can just...tell. Nothing bad.”

 

“What, you can just tell that too, then?”

 

The brunet grimaced and turned away. “Yeah. Mother called it a quirk. It’s kind of like when you pick nirnroot,” he laughed again. “It just--it just is. I can feel it.”

 

They approached a darkened doorway and Faustus held his hand up to Baurus, frowning at the barrier.

 

He turned to his friend. “Uncle,” he began, “what was my mother like?” he stammered. “I mean, before I was born.”

 

“You’re asking this now?” Baurus asked, his brows shooting towards his hairline. “I’ve told you stories about her before--”

 

“You’ve told me about the Hero of Kvatch. Not my mother. Not about her life before Cyrodiil. She only told me she was from High Rock and not much else,” he glared at the ground. He didn’t say anything for some time, instead gazing at the cracks in the stone under his feet as he felt Baurus’ eyes on him. “You know,” he scoffed after a moment, eyes bright in the dim glow of the dungeon, and continued, “I thought Martin Septim was my father for the longest time, because that’s what all the other children said, and because of how sad she became whenever the anniversary date rolled around, and she wouldn’t talk about--” He bit himself off as a sheen fell over his eyes when he turned his face back towards the Redguard. “She cried a lot, you know. When people weren’t around.”

 

Baurus sighed, glancing at the entrance. “Your mother was,” he paused and scratched the back of his head, “your mother was a very...complex woman, and she kept much to herself. I wish I could be of more help--”

 

“But what was she like?” Faustus burst out with his fists clenched. “She--before she left, she--she was just--”

 

“She was willful and stubborn, but was one of the bravest persons I’ve ever known, even if she didn’t think so herself. And also one of the most difficult. I was not privy to all that went on in her head, especially before you were born. I probably won’t be able to give you anything else beyond that.” The ex-soldier glazed back to the door. “Maybe this’ll help.”

 

Faustus slumped, then chuckled. “It’ll have to. I suppose she wasn’t much different then,” he sighed. “I miss her,” he admitted.

 

“She was a good woman. No matter what. She had a good heart. I believe that,” he said. “Not many people would have done what she did, during the Crisis. We all make mistakes. Just--just remember that. And she loved you. Very much.”

 

The youth nodded, jaw set, and he pushed his way inside the chamber.

  
  
  


Faustus didn’t know what he had been expecting. Explosions, traps, some sort of portal. Really anything.

 

What he found instead was a rather ordinary, if somewhat sparse, bedroom. The room, overall, looked to be in good condition: torches remained lit, the furniture was clean but undisturbed. Pinpricks ran down his spine and he shivered as he glanced at a pair of hanging tapestries that dominated one of the walls. He heard Baurus’ footfalls echo behind him, sluggish, and he glanced backwards to see the man casting his eyes about the place, coming back to the tapestries, a glower on the older man’s face.

 

Faustus swallowed. “Do you think she lived here?” he asked the Redguard.

 

“I don’t think so, but I suppose she may have, at some point, but she moved to Bravil before you were born, right after...everything.”

 

The Imperial opened the doors of the chest and found a smaller box inside. He fished the key out of his pocket and felt for the lock along the seam of the container and slid the piece of metal inside and twisted. It opened with a click. A tingle ran through his frame and a soft glow emanated from above him, enough to illuminate the contents of the armoire. Dark robes and leather armor hung within, and various pieces of footwear and a disused bow and set of arrows. Inside the box, however, the contents were parceled in bright purple silk, with a single piece of folded, cream colored parchment placed on top.

 

Faustus looked up and behind him, touching the note, and asked, “Do you think I could get a moment alone?”

 

“Of course,” the man affirmed and clapped Faustus’ shoulder. “I’ll just be right outside. Looking for ghosts,” he half-joked. “Hurry though, don’t know what it is with you Sauveterre’s and dungeons, but this place gives me the creeps,” he said as he made his way to the door, his voice drifting over the faint buzzing in Faustus’ ears.

 

The boy nodded and picked the letter up, pulling out his dagger and sliding it under the seal and prying the edges away so he could unfold it. As it fluttered open, he saw his mother’s looping script, with the first letter, the F of his name--unnecessarily, in his humble opinion--embellished with smooth curlicues that ended in a flourish. He rolled his eyes, a smile fighting its way onto his face.

 

_Faustus,_

 

_At least, I hope this is Faustus. This should be Faustus. He’s the only one with the key to this and, if it is not, there is little of monetary value in here, so I suggest you leave it be. For your sake. Perhaps I’ve placed a curse on it, perhaps there’s a trap waiting for you should you not do as I ask. Who knows?_

 

 _But if this IS Faustus, then I want you to know that I tried to gather as much as I could for you. Some things were still at Applewatch ~~but I only went there the once because I couldn’t bear to see ~~_~~it was far too painful~~  __ _but I found as much as I could with the small amount of time I had there. I couldn’t bring myself to look at most of it, but you deserve to have it since it’s all that is really left of your father. I don’t know everything that is in here. A--_ he squinted, trying to see through some of the ink splotches that she left, obscuring the words there _\--colleague of mine gathered a great deal of his effects. I left a couple of trinkets here as well. Just some things I wanted to make sure you received. Perhaps you’ll find someone to give my ring to, if you do not wish it for yourself. I didn’t._

 

_Please keep this in mind: your father was ~~a frightening~~  _ ~~_an infuriating_ ~~ _a complicated man. I did not know him as well as I wished. I regret that now. After all, he did give me you. He was an intense man, with a strong sense of duty and--I believe, misguided--honor. But I cannot really say anything different about myself. I regret not knowing him as well as I could because it means you’ll never know him, not like you should._

 

_I’m sorry._

 

_I must confess to you something that has weighed on me these last few years, watching you grow. I did not hate your father. He frightened me, he was dangerous, but I never hated him._ ~~_I cannot say I loved him. Not with any surety._ _I wanted to love him._~~ _I cared for him, in my way. But I told him I hated him, before he died. I never got the chance to tell him about you._ ~~_I wish I had gotten to._ ~~

 

~~_Faustus, you are the best thing I have ever done in this world and I am so sorry that I never told you much while I was with you. My baby boy, I’m not a good person. I can’t be. But you...despite your father and myself, I look at you and I can believe Aetherius exists._ ~~

 

_I apologize. My thoughts got away from me, as they often seem to, these days. What I mean to say is that you have always been the thing, the person, I am most proud of. Even now, as a child, you are the most wonderful little creature on Nirn. But I want you to know that I’ve done things I’m not proud of. You’ll hear all sorts of stories about me, about the Hero of Kvatch, about the Champion of Cyrodiil, as the friend of Martin Septim, but you’ll never hear about me: poor, unhappy Felicienne. I am so sorry I won’t be there to answer your questions. I can’t be. I live, but not truly, and I can ignore it no longer. I’ll never see you again. You’re beyond me now, and if I could do anything in the world to change that, I would. But nothing stays the same. Not even Daedric Princes. Especially Daedric Princes._

 

The boy’s face twisted in confusion, then shook his head.

 

_I’ve rambled long enough. Just know that I love you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I wish I could have given you a proper home. I tried. I really did._

 

_Your loving mother,_

 

_Felicienne Sauveterre_

 

Faustus frowned, setting the letter to the side and opened the silk wrapping. Within it lay a few baubles: a ring crowned with an iridescent faceted gem that emanated a strange viridescent glow; a couple amulets, one with a long pendant attached, another with a dark gemstone, and one made of wood, the symbol of Akatosh etched on its surface; and a few other small odds and ends: a couple pearls--he smiled, his eyes lighting upon uncovering them--along with a few septims, dried blooms of nightshade, and a strange six-pointed flower. There was a book _The Brothers of Darkness_ , and then a smaller parcel. He dug it out and brought it to the brighter light to examine it.

 

It looked old, and it remained unopened, the packaging was worn and brittle and bound with a leather strap. He took his dagger out and cut the binding, letting the wrapping fall open to reveal a small wooden box, carved in the Breton style. Faustus mused that someone must have spent quite a bit of coin on it. He flipped the lid open and another letter, tightly folded and made of vellum, set inside. But what caught his eye was that it was addressed to his mother.

He thought that, surely, she would have at least opened it had she seen it.

 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he unfolded the parchment. Unlike his mother’s sprawling cursive, this print was confined and square. Neat, and far easier to read. He traced his fingers over the letters and chuckled. When he picked up the note, he spied an ornate, silver ring underneath. Thick and sturdy, it was inscribed along the sides in what appeared to be old Cyrodilic: _Bene Qui Latuit Bene Vixit_.*

 

He set the ring down to skim over the letter, sucking on the corner of his mouth.

 

_Felicienne,_

 

_I will eschew the pretense of this being a formal letter between Speaker and Silencer and get right into what I want to say: I did not let you speak when we were last together. I wish that I had now. I have no doubt that you are on your way as I write this, but I have come to realize that it may be too late. I should not have exposed myself that night in Bravil as I did, and I fear that will be my downfall. But despite the circumstances, I do not regret it. I regret the harm I have done you, including that night, but not in seeing you. I could not bear the thought of you being the traitor and I was enraged at your betrayal, and I’ll admit that I acted without thinking._

 

_I meant what I said then: I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I came to you that first night. But I met you before, earlier that day last Frostfall. You bumped into me and apologized. I had been observing you, as Ungolim told me where to find you per the Night Mother’s orders--_

 

Faustus felt his stomach drop.

 

_\--and I remember thinking how soft everything about you was, though you have proven time and again that there is a hidden viciousness in you. I do adore that about you._

 

_I also thought you lovely. The loveliest thing I had seen in a very long time in Tamriel. And I have seen many a lovely thing._

 

_I am aware that my attentions have not always been welcome for you, and I too regret the actions I committed to that end. I think that I always will, if I have enough time left. Perhaps that is why I am even bothering to write this down. I do not believe I will live long enough to see you again. I told you the Black Hand has been pursuing me, and I suspect that they may have discovered Applewatch. If they have not, then I look forward to gazing at your visage once again when you return to me and desire nothing more at this moment than to rectify my treatment of you, if you will let me. I told you that you were mine, but I fear that if you truly wished it, you would flee from me and I would never again see you. That gives me some measure of hope, that you have not done this. Perhaps you have grown more fond of me than you have let on._

 

_I am not a good man by society’s standards. I don’t know if I ever could have been one. I have served and loved Sithis and the Night Mother since my youth and have never regretted it. But I have wondered, from time to time, what it may have been like to have met you under different circumstances. Such ponderings are useless, but still. I wonder. Would you have loved me then?_

 

_Forgive me. I have become maudlin over these bloody days._

 

_I may not have much time left, but I want you to have this. I meant to give it to you some time ago. You asked me once how I was able to enter your rooms without you noticing. This is how. I received it from a wizard long ago. Gruesome death. I was young and foolish and far too eager, but I recovered this from his body. It is my wish that it serves you as well as it has me these last twenty or so years. I hope I will be able to see it on you._

  


_Yours, though you may not wish it,_

_L L_

 

Faustus stared at the note for some time with burning eyes and throat, his heart and lungs wrapped in thorns that threatened to burst through his chest. He shook his head a couple times and glanced around the room again, at the hanging tapestries and still-lit torches and back into the armoire at the open chest and tome that lay within.

 

No one could know about this, he realized. The letter fluttered to the ground and he pressed his palms into his eye sockets, pushing against them and seeing violet starts burst across his vision and his face grew clammy. He tried to picture his mother, tried to imagine her living like this, underground, surrounded by death and blood. He remembered her smile--

 

_Poor, unhappy Felicienne_

 

Had he ever known his mother? The woman who watched him dig for clams on a quest to find the most perfect pearl to give her for Heart’s Day, who sat out during violent thunderstorms on the Niben Bay, who threatened to curse the parents of the neighbor children who used to pick on him.

 

Would she have killed them had they not stopped, he wondered with a vague sense of horror.

 

And what of his father? From his letter to Felicienne…

 

Had his father harmed her? Had that man--

 

Ice settled in his stomach and sludged around inside of him and he gulped down the hot bile that bubbled and clawed at his throat. It didn’t bear thinking about. What was done was done. Nothing could be changed now, so many years later. Half of her letter didn’t even make sense. He snorted, thinking back when she began talking to herself, in the middle of the night when she thought him asleep. Faustus felt tears dampen his hands and cheeks and he rubbed his eyes until they stung.

 

He heard a knock and whipped his head up.

 

“Are you alright in there? You’ve been inside for awhile,” came Baurus’ voice.

 

He took a few deep breaths and nodded before scoffing at himself and clearing his throat. “I’m fine. Just straightening up. I--I’d like to get going soon. I’ll be out in a bit.”

 

“That’s alright,” Baurus replied. “We’ll have to stay in Cheydinhal for the night.”

 

“That’s fine with me. We can head out of town tomorrow morning then,” he called out. He bent over to pick up the discarded note and tucked it back into its box. He then placed everything else within the larger chest and pulled it out of the armoire.

 

Faustus headed toward the door and, before he opened it, turned back to the room and waved his hand, extinguishing the torches there.

 

* * *

 

 

Baurus hadn’t wanted to leave him alone when they arrived back in Bravil, but Faustus insisted that he would be fine. He sat on the shore of the Niben and watched the waves lap over the pebbled beach, the water brushing his bare feet. A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see a dark silhouette framed by a golden lining.

 

“Elpis,” he sighed. “You made it.”

 

The young woman rolled her eyes and sat down next to him, hiking her skirt up to her knees to avoid dampening it. He gazed at the slim line of her neck and fair skin, the curve of her rosy cheek and her rose-gold hair that she’d swept up off of her face and neck.

 

“Of course I did. Your note sounded so urgent I couldn’t ignore it. Who knows what you’d do,” she snipped, but a small smile and wink softened her words. “My father would hate me being out here with you,” she told him but slid closer to his side.

 

“And yet…?”

 

“My mother will work him over. She likes you. Probably because you’re so pretty,” she laughed, slipping her arm through his.

 

He chuckled, feeling her hair tickle the side of his face, and he sighed.

 

“Elpis,” he stated and bit his lip and breathed in and out through his nose a few times. She turned to look at him again, a frown tugging on her features and he cleared his throat. “I know I don’t have much. I mean, I have coin, and I suppose I’m well off enough thanks to my mother, but I know I don’t have a family or anything like that. I mean, I’m a nobody. Not the ideal man at all, but I know how I feel about you--”

 

Elpis held up her hand and he felt a sharp stab in his breast.

 

“Faustus,” she sighed. “Do you remember when we first met?”

 

He scratched the back of his head and his forehead creased, his lip curling. “Er, yes, I do actually. I was about six I think and I was digging for clams again. I was standing on a rock and you shoved me off of it.”

 

“You hit your head and your mother threatened to singe all my ‘pretty hair off of my scalp’ if you were hurt,” she laughed. “I remember being terrified. Of both your mother and the fact you actually had gotten hurt. Your poor little forehead had a nasty gash in it and I felt so guilty,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder.

 

“What does this--”

 

“Do you know why I pushed you?”

 

“You were an evil little brat who tormented me for three years?”

 

“Hey,” she scolded and swatted his arm. “No, that’s not why.” She sighed and nuzzled his cheek. “I wanted you to pay attention to me. You and your mother were always just...around. I’d seen you at the market, but you two were always in your own little world, and you never even noticed when I tried to get you to play with my friends and I. I remember seeing you and thinking you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. And you didn’t even notice me at all. So I pushed you." She grinned up at him. "You noticed me then.”

 

“Why are you bringing up you pulling my pigtails and mother’s temper right now?”

 

“My point is that you’re an idiot and I’ve loved you since we were children. You’re going to ask me to marry you and give you a whole houseful of children.”

 

He blanched. “I mean, not a houseful, maybe one or two--”

 

“And I’m going to tell you I would love to marry you. I don’t care if you have all of the septims in the Imperial reserve or that you think you’re a nobody. You've always been someone to me.”

 

“Oh, wow,” he laughed, smiling. “But what about your father?” he asked her, grin still etched on his lips despite his furrowed brow.

 

“To Oblivion with my father. He’ll get over it. Mother will be overjoyed.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

 

“I love you, you know that? I never want to part from you,” he said, taking her hand in his and gripping it, feeling her fingers tighten around his. “I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you.”

 

“Hush now, none of that,” she said, touching her forefinger to his lips. “I’m not much for adventuring, and we live within the city walls. I think I’ll be fine,” she teased before she grew serious. “Not everyone is going to leave you, Faustus,” she murmured, smoothing one hand over his hair and bringing his to her mouth, kissing his knuckle.

 

His eyes fluttered shut before snapping open. “I almost forgot,” he exclaimed and dove his hand into his pocket. He fished out that ring that glowed with virescent light and held it out to her. “I wanted to give this to you.” He watched her face, tension draining from him when he saw the small smile a soft blush that graced her features. “It was my mother’s, apparently, and she said I might find someone I wanted to give it to. And I did.”

 

“It’s amazing,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 

“Well,” he stammered, face heating, “I’ve never seen anything like you, so I thought it fitting.”

 

She snorted and smacked his arm again. “Flatterer,” she simpered, “That was terrible, by the way.” She slid it on and giggled. “I love you. Idiot.”

 

“I love you too. Harpy.”

 

He gasped when she tackled him to the ground and tickled his ribs until he begged her to stop.

 

* * *

 

 

Later in the evening, after he had escorted his affianced back to her home, two young men pushed Faustus through the doors of Silver Home on the Water and ruffled his hair.

 

“Hey!” the first one shouted. “Our friend is getting married! We need to celebrate.” He kissed the side of Faustus’ face who ducked and tried to extricate himself from his friends’ grip.

 

“Leandre, I said we’d have a couple drinks. Quietly. Not announce everything to the whole tavern,” he muttered.

 

The second man jostled Faustus’ shoulder. “Nonsense! You’re the first one to get tied down. We have to see you off.”

 

“Aw, come on Aurelius, Elpis is great. He’s lucky he snagged her,” Leandre said. “Besides, she can drink you under the table.”

 

Aurelius rolled his eyes. “That was one time. Next time she comes out with us, I’ll challenge her to a rematch.”

 

“Bet you won’t, and I bet Faustus wouldn’t like that anyway.”

 

“Only because I’ll wind up being responsible for both of you,” he grumbled.

 

His friends cackled and shoved him onto a stool at the bar. As they bickered between each other, Faustus ordered a pint of ale. When he went to pay, another man stepped up and offered to pay instead, already handing the barkeep a couple septims. He was: tall, for a Breton, and rather handsome--Faustus wasn’t blind, after all--with shoulder-length hair and dark brows. A prick snagged at the base of his skull and a buzzing sounded in his ears.

 

“Couldn’t help but hear you were getting married,” the man said, sitting next to him and nodding to Faustus’ companions. “Let me buy the first round,” he told the boy, lips curved upwards. “Least I can do.”

 

“Er, thank you, but you really didn’t have to do that.”

 

“Nonsense,” the Breton chuckled. “Man getting married shouldn’t have to buy his own drink. This is a special day for you. Trust me, you’re doing me a favor letting me be a part of it.”

 

Faustus snickered and shook his head. “Sure, but only because I don’t think you’d take no for an answer.”

 

“No, I won’t,” the man admitted, still grinning, still laughing, and Faustus felt the buzzing reverberate in his head, and he shuddered. The older man looked at the boy. “You seem familiar. Have we met before?”

 

Before Faustus could answer, Leandre cut in. “You mean you don’t know who he is?” he gasped, clutching his chest before breaking into another fit of giggles. Faustus was positive Leandre had started drinking before they arrived at the inn. The other man just smiled indulgently and gestured for Leandre to continue. “His mother was the Champion of Cyrodiil! Everyone around here knows that. You must be new to town.”

 

Faustus’ face burned and he hissed for Leandre to shut up, but their new friend snickered.

 

The Breton nodded. “I thought you looked familiar,” he told Faustus. “I actually knew her. Long time ago. You have her eyes.”

 

Faustus straightened. “You knew her?”

 

The man pushed his hair away from his face, his expression soft and he responded, “Yeah, you could say that. We didn’t really run in the same circles, but I knew her enough.” He smacked Faustus on his back, causing him to stumble a bit. “Well, now I have to keep you all in your cups, knowing you’re Felicienne’s boy.”

 

“Won’t say no to that,” Leandre said, with a hum of agreement from Aurelius.

 

“We really can’t take advantage of you like that,” Faustus started, but the other man held his hand up.

 

“Not taking advantage at all. Your mother did a pretty big favor for me when I met her. Think of this as my way of paying it back.”

 

Faustus sighed and shook his head, smiling. “I suppose I can’t stop you then. Er, thank you. Really.”

 

“No need to thank me,” the man insisted, and he motioned for the innkeeper to bring another round of ale for the bar. “Besides,” he added, “you seem like someone who needs to lighten up every once in awhile. Have some fun.”

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Aurelius muttered into his pint, ignoring the dirty look Faustus threw his way.

 

“Well, tonight’s the night then,” the Breton announced. He pushed a stein into Faustus’ hand and the boy accepted it and drained it in four deep draughts. The older man guffawed, slapping him on the back again. “You’ve been holding out. What say you we make this evening a little more interesting?”

 

Faustus looked up, already feeling the rush of amber liquid sloshing around in his head, and he blinked a couple times to bring his new friend back into focus. “Interesting how?”

 

Aurelius and Leandre also glanced over, and they couldn’t quite hide the expectant expressions that decorated their faces.

 

“Oh, nothing much, just a friendly drinking competition between us.”

 

Leandre slammed his mug down onto the bar and exclaimed, “Yes. Faustus, come on. Live a little.”

 

Aurelius nodded and took another sip of his drink before adding, “What’s the worst that could happen? If anything, either we or Elpis have to drag you home, and we kind of owe you one anyway.”

 

Faustus worried his lip. “I don’t know. I mean, thank you for the drinks, but--”

 

“Aw, come on,” he wheedled. “What if we make a little wager.”

 

The youth’s forehead creased and he tilted his head to the side. “Wager? What kind?”

 

“Well, if you win, I have--in my travels--acquired a most unusual staff that I think you might be interested in. What do you say?”

 

Leandre and Aurelius had taken to chanting “Do it, do it” and somehow got the rest of the tavern involved, even the publican until the room was filled with the dull roar of chanting and fists drumming on various wooden surfaces. Faustus sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“Alright, alright,” he laughed. “But we haven’t really been properly introduced. I know you know my mother, but I’m Faustus Sauveterre,” he stated and held his hand out for the Breton to shake.

 

He watched a smirk spread across the man’s face as his brow arched and Faustus felt a frisson slither down his spine, but kept his hand in place. The Breton’s eyes lit up as he held out his own hand and clasped Faustus’ open palm. “Call me Sam.”

 

**End FORTUNE’S FAVORITE ARC**

 

 

* * *

***** _To live well is to live concealed (from Ovid)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue, as promised XD Forgive any mistakes. I spent a lot of time with this but I've been terribly sick the last week and I'm sure I've missed some things. I always notice after I finish publishing something -_- 
> 
> Hopefully this is a nice little bit of fluff (though, yeah, there's angst too, but FLUFF)
> 
> A BIG THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to everyone who's supported this fic (and by proxy me). It's meant so much to me and I'm so happy that people out there have enjoyed this. This story was really a long journey for me, and I got to write about themes that mean a lot to me, and I'm so grateful that I've been able to see this through. 
> 
> As I've been saying, there's going to be a sequel that I'll start posting in a couple weeks (like, first weekend of December) and the update schedule will, hopefully, continue to be every two weeks. It's been hard to write past chapter 10, but I'm hoping that with this now done, I have no excuse to not finish the rough drafts of "While Kicking and Biting." Go ahead and give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://burningsilenceblog.tumblr.com/) for future updates and general fandom silliness.


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